The Lets Read Podcast - 269: MY DAD WAS A WAR CRIMINAL | 20 True Scary Stories | EP 257

Episode Date: December 10, 2024

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about dark family secrets, home invasions & the scary reason why one redditor quit Youtube HAVE A STORY TO SUBMIT? [e-mail] FOLLOW ME ON - ►YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/c/letsreadofficial ► Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/letsread.official/ ► Twitter - https://twitter.com/LetsRead ♫ Music, Audio Mix & Cover art: INEKT https://www.youtube.com/@inekt Today's episode is sponsored by Mint Mobile

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Find your pro at your local Tread Experts. From tires to auto repair, we're always there. TreadExperts.ca My father came to America in 1946, at the age of just 19 years old. He'd somehow survived growing up during WWII and that era in Poland, and he tried his best to make a life for himself once peace arrived, but it proved impossible. So instead, he traveled 300 miles from his hometown to the northern port of Gdansk, where he hopped on a ship and sailed all the way over to Ellis Island. He made his way to Chicago, met my mother, and the rest is history. When I was growing up, he seemed very proud of our Polish heritage,

and mealtimes would often feature a lot of Polish food like kielbasa, pierogies, and gołąbki. My parents were also very, very Catholic, and by that I mean our house was filled with cute little religious statues, along with prints of popes, saints, and bible stories. My father never talked about growing up in wartime Poland, but by the time I was curious about it, my mom told me he didn't enjoy doing so, on account of how terrible and sad it had all been. This is perfectly understandable. I probably wouldn't want to talk about it either, especially not with someone who wasn't there, who wouldn't understand, and would just end up

feeling pity instead of joy whenever they were around me. Now many years went by, many happy ones too, but as my father got older, his health began to fail. I remember him being in a state of decline for a few years until finally some kind of medical incident left him bedbound with the doctor saying that he didn't have long left to live. My siblings and I took turns taking care of him during that time but I practically lived in his place during his final few months. Then one day, during a November evening, he made a very chilling request of me. He asked me to get him a priest.

I knew that wasn't a good sign, but I did what was asked of me and got in touch with the priest who'd promised to come over, take his final confession, and give him the last rites. Usually speaking, that final confession consists of little more than a blanket admission, because only the repentant can be truly forgiven. And after that, the priest administers the last rites and a person can pass away in peace. But that's not what happened with my father. When it came to giving his last confession, my father began to speak in Polish in front of me for the first time since I was a child. I'm pretty sure he thought that I couldn't understand him, but that was only half true. My Polish has never been great, but I

can understand way more than I can speak, and I didn't understand every word my father said to the priest that evening, but I got the gist, and I don't think I've ever heard anything that's horrified me that much, upset me that much, or made me angry that much in my whole entire life. What I heard were fractured pieces of information, but as I said, the gist of it was clear. The reason my father had left Poland in 1946 was because he'd taken part in an act of mass murder, and if caught by the authorities, would have been hanged for his participation. For those that don't know, Poland got it really bad during the Second World War and the situation in my father's hometown was no different. Right from the get-go, the Germans were massacring the

townspeople, including one incident where they summoned everyone to the local athletic stadium and then publicly executed more than 50 people. There was a lot of resistance, with local partisans managing to kill a handful of SS officers, but every time they got hit, the Germans hit back ten times harder. They killed hundreds of people and deported thousands more, so that by the end of the war, Kielce was a shadow of what it had been beforehand. But then after the Germans were kicked out of Poland by the Russians and various partisan groups, the peace was almost as bad as the war.

Since my father's hometown had dozens of empty houses and apartments from all the people that had been deported or killed, a human tidal wave of refugees and traumatized survivors showed up looking for somewhere to live. Some of these people had lived there before the war and came back to find their houses had been either taken over by squatters or completely destroyed. So with no place else to go, they had to basically set up camp on the edge of town. The camp then grew and grew with hundreds more refugees showing up because they heard my father's hometown was a good place to stay. Then, just like many situations like that, your good apples got along to get along,

while the bad apples started giving the refugees at the camp a very bad reputation. One day, my father said it was summertime. A woman began running around town asking if people had seen her young son. He was six or seven years old, around that kind of age, and he'd overstayed his curfew long enough for his mother to become worried. An impromptu search party was formed, and they go around asking if anyone's seen the boy. Then, in the course of their search, they either decide or discover that the missing boy had been playing out near the refugee camp with some of the kids who'd lived there. One thing leads to another, and a posse of townsfolk march down to the camp and demand the return of the missing child. Someone in the camp

doesn't take kindly to the accusation and a fight breaks out. There were far more men in the camp than were in the posse, so they were soon overwhelmed and driven off. But when they showed back up in town, all bloodied and bruised, they told everyone the refugees did kidnap the kid. But not only that, they told everyone that people in the camp had kidnapped the boy and wouldn't give him back because they'd killed him. I guess the tension between the townspeople and the refugees was so bad that the townspeople didn't question the search party's claims. Then, just like in some old Frankenstein movie, the men and boys of the town formed a huge mob, then marched out of the refugee camp and my father had been part of that mob. When they arrived, some of the men from

the refugee camp tried to stop them from entering, but it was no use. The mob were many, and the defenders were few. They burned tents and wagons, beat people, stabbed people, set people on fire. A few of the townsfolk had brought guns, so every so often there was like a crack of a rifle or pistol before another of the campers fell. It was a true massacre in every sense of the word, and hundreds were killed before the Russian garrison arrived to put an end to the looting and violence. Only when they threatened to machine gun everyone running riot in the camp did the crowd disperse, but the new Russian-backed government couldn't allow that kind of lawlessness.

They sent soldiers to round up everyone who had been part of the murderous mob and executed 12 of them by hanging in the days that followed. After that, many of the others who descended on the camp, my father included, decided to flee rather than face a Red Army firing squad. And that's how he ended up going north to Gdankst, and how he ended up coming to America. As it was happening, my dad's confession I mean, all I got were fractured pieces of information, but it was enough to figure out the exact incident that he was referring to historically. I remember the feeling of my heart sinking in my chest when I realized every word he'd said was true,

and that there was a whole Wikipedia article detailing what had happened and the build-up to it, as well as the aftermath. I think I could write for hours, and it still wouldn't sum up all those feelings of anger and shame and heartbreak I felt. I mean, imagine it. Imagine going your whole life looking up to your father, seeing him as your greatest protector and thinking he wouldn't hurt a fly. Then one day, you find out that he gleefully stole from the women and children he used rocks, that's right, rocks, to kill. Not all of the mob were armed when they descended on the camp and those that didn't have guns or knives or farm tools to kill with, used their fists, feet, sticks, and stones. I never asked my father about what happened in his hometown. I wanted to, but I couldn't bring myself to. I just did what I could to make him as comfortable as possible, and he died a few days later. I never breathed a word of what I'd heard at his funeral, and all that horror and guilt was masked by grief,

and when it came to dividing up his meager estate, I knew where my portion of the money was going. I'm sure the synagogue and the homeless shelter in my father's old Polish hometown were very surprised when donations of a few thousand dollars each arrived in their bank accounts, but if they tried, they were unable to reach out and thank me for them. But that's okay with me, because I didn't make those donations in my name. I made them in my father's. Because if all the Catholic fire and brimstone stuff is actually real, I figured he could use all the help he could get just getting into purgatory.

Because unless there really is such a thing as a benevolent and merciful, my mom in with us, and she got to spend her last few years in the comfort of family. We couldn't afford a home but even if we did have the money she'd never have accepted living in one. The way she saw it, the way she saw it, selling the house and saving on retirement home money meant more cash towards our kid's college fund. But first I'd have to clean the place out, do a little redecorating then put the place on the market. And so one day I'd have to clean the place out, do a little redecorating, then put the place on the market. And so one day, I went over to the house to start clearing it out.

I started with the ground floors, made my way to the second, and then finally, I was faced with clearing out the attic. But then as I was doing so, I realized a lot of the stuff up there amounted to a chronicling of my family history. There were all kinds of photo albums, mementos from Hawaiian vacations, and then a whole folder stuffed with pieces of paperwork like birth and death certificates. And that's how I found out my last name was not actually my last name, and that at some point, my parents had gone about changing the name of our family. From what I could tell, this all took place when I was four years old, so it was no wonder I had no memory of it. But then, as you can imagine, I was intensely curious as to why this name change took place, so the first chance I got, I asked my mom about it.

I already figured that the reason a whole family might change their name probably wasn't a good one. We'd been either running from something or hiding something or probably a combination of the two. So when I put aside the time to actually sit down with mom, show her the paperwork and ask why our family changed its name, I knew it wasn't going to be an easy two-minute explanation. The kids were at school, my wife was at work, and mom was watching TV in our living room. Then, in as delicate a manner as possible, I asked my mom if we could talk and then showed her the paperwork that proved that she and my dad had changed our family name. I'd expected some kind of emotional reaction, but instead, mom acted resigned to my question. She knew that I'd probably find the paperwork during the process of clearing their home, which for the record, wasn't the same one that I grew up in.

The thought had occurred to her, and it had panicked her at first, but since the events in question were more than 40 years old, it was always an inevitability that I'd find out in some way. She figured then would be as good a time as ever. Mom explained that I had an uncle that I'd never been aware of, one who died when I was still in diapers. The circumstances of his death had caused a great scandal, so to avoid being harangued by journalists and vigilante types, my parents decided to change our name, then moved across the country to begin a new life. I think mom tried to avoid

telling me what I actually wanted to know. It was like watching her taking bites out of each side of a devil dog, carefully scraping away the cake part, too scared to get to what holds it all together. I had to ask her directly to get her to tell me, and this, in so many words, is what she said in return. My paternal uncle and my future aunt by marriage met while they were in college. They had an on-again-off-again relationship and apparently my father believed it was doomed. But then suddenly and inexplicably they announced that they were engaged. Again my dad thought that they'd eventually just break it off. They weren't a good fit and it seemed only a matter of time before they broke things off for good. But then when it came to the wedding,

my dad said that he slowly realized what his brother saw in his new bride. Her family were very rich. From what mom said, they were old and new money. All their cash came down from way before and they'd invested it wisely and it showed. Mom said they owned a chain of canning factories or something and this is back when canning was a much bigger industry. So in short, they were loaded. Dad knew it was a bad idea to marry for money but my uncle wouldn't listen and he and his bride were married in a lavish ceremony at some country estate. The first few months lived

up to the term honeymoon period, but after that it was back to business as usual. There were fights, talk of annulment and divorce, but still the couple went on and with my uncle having become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, he wasn't willing to give up easily. And then came the accident. My aunt and uncle had been out hiking when my aunt had apparently taken a nasty fall. She was rushed to the hospital with life-threatening injuries and the doctors managed to save her life, but after the surgery, our family got the bad news. She would never walk again and was unlikely to regain the use of her arms. She proved the doctors wrong on the second part. Well, half wrong in that she regained the use of one of her arms,

but she was confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Mom and dad noticed that my uncle was acting strangely in the aftermath of the accident, but I mean, who wouldn't? Even if their relationship was rocky, he still loved his wife in some capacity. At least my parents thought so. So it was only natural that my uncle wasn't in a good place following the accident. They had to remodel their house, the prospect of children was pretty much off the table, and it was a terrible transitionary time, but everyone adjusted. Or so they thought. One day, my dad gets a call from my grandpa who had some more bad news. My uncle was dead, and so was my aunt. Both

had taken their own lives. Obviously, this was incredibly shocking news, but that wasn't all of it. As things progressed, the family got more and more info, learning that my uncle had hung himself first before my aunt had overdosed on pills. And before she did, she left a note. Only my father and grandfather actually read it and as far as I know it's back in some evidence file someplace if it's not already been destroyed. But what it said was even more shocking than the acts that immediately surrounded its writing. Basically, my aunt's accident wasn't an accident. My uncle had pushed her. They had an argument, and she hit him, and he shoved her. She fell

back way further than he'd intended to shove her, then down the rocky hillside she went, never to fully recover. I guess my uncle could have just finished her off there and then, but he didn't, and she never breathed a word of the shove to the police. Instead, my aunt pretended to let bygones be bygones. I don't know how she pulled it off, but she did, when in reality, she was intent on revenge. All the letter said was that she wore him down until he did it, and God knows what the hell that entailed exactly, but I imagine she played a lot on his guilt and how he was trapped with her

whatever hurt the most until finally he just couldn't take it anymore. Obviously there were no arrests or anything but boy did the media want to know all about my uncle and his relationship with my aunt. And to get answers, they sought out my dad. All the unwanted attention was really bad for our family and apparently some people got it into their heads that my dad was somehow in on it. They vandalized the house while I was sleeping in my crib and after that, dad started looking at jobs and houses out of state as well as looking at a potential change of name. Mom said they planned on telling me when I was ready but then who the hell decides when that is? They put it off and put it off until eventually they decided it was just best to keep

it a secret. They feared the bombshell might upset the progress myself and my siblings were making in life and that's on top of the fact that they just didn't want to revisit such a painful period of our lives. I actually get it too. I don't know how I'd have handled that kind of burden personally but I give them a solid 8 out of 10 for their own execution. Fighting out as a grown adult was traumatic, so I can only imagine how I'd have reacted if they told me at age 15 or 18 or even 21. It's definitely something that I still think about from time to time, but frankly, the fact that I can view it as almost like an unrelated third party, it sort of feels like a privilege at this point. It's messed up and it hurts to think about, but not nearly as much as it would if I had to grow up with it stuck in my head.

In that sense, I understand why my parents kept it a secret from me. Heck, I pretty much endorse and applaud it at this point. Sometimes, secrets need to be kept because at a certain age, uncomfortable, unpalatable, or incomprehensible truths can be just as wounding as a knife or bullet. I see it everywhere. Kids who grow up knowing too much, too soon. They're old before their time in a way and it's something they carry with them into adulthood. But I didn't have to carry anything with me.

I never had any kind of mental burden forced upon me. My parents did the opposite. They shielded me from it and for that, I'm very grateful. A couple years ago, after helping my elderly parents clear out their attic, I came across a box of old photos. I took a break from cleaning and carrying, then sat down in a full box to peruse them. Each page was a goldmine of nostalgia, but the albums I found the most interesting were the ones depicting my parents' childhoods. There was a whole album featuring shots of my mom's side of the family and another featuring my dad's.

But as I went through the latter, I noticed something very curious. I always believed that I had one aunt and that was it. But in the pictures, my father quite clearly had two siblings. At first I thought that it might have been a cousin of his or something, but as I progressed through the album it became clear that yes, I had a mystery uncle that I had been completely unaware of for the better part of four decades. As you can imagine, my first thought was to ask my mom and dad about it, not in an overly confrontational way but it wasn't exactly the kind of thing that I was happy to put off until a later date. I wanted to know, and I wanted to

know right then and there, but as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for. The mysterious uncle was named Joe, and Uncle Joe had passed away when I was still in diapers, which is why I didn't remember him. He and my dad had been close, as the pictures had shown, but that made me all the more curious as to why he'd never mentioned him. When I brought it up I immediately detected this contempt for my mom which stood in contrast to the melancholy of my dad. This was my first big clue that whatever happened it had been some sudden random tragedy or at least there had to be a little more to the story than that. And boy was there ever. One day, dad drives over to Uncle Joe's to borrow a hacksaw or something.

He knocks on the front door and there's no answer, but instead of just driving back empty handed, he walks into the backyard to let himself in the back door. The back door is open and my dad calls out for Uncle Joe but again there's no reply. His truck was in the driveway and his dogs were in the kitchen so dad figured that his brother was home and he was. He was hanging by a necktie in his closet. My dad was the one that found him. Dad said Uncle Joe was still warm when he found him and he tried CPR to bring him back, but it was no good. After that, he went out to his car, called 911 and just sat there crying until they showed up. I can't imagine how painful that must have been for him. Finding out your brother just took his own life is one thing, but being the one to find him, that's a whole other level of messed up.

A lot of folks attended his funeral, all asking why Joe would do something like that because to everyone that knew him, it was a complete mystery. He had no history of depression or anything like that and I know some people can hide that stuff really well so at this point, it's almost cliche to say no one saw it coming. But dad said that in Uncle Joe's case, that cliche applied double. He was a man's man, loved hunting and shooting, but he also wasn't one to bottle up his feelings. If he had a problem or something on his mind, he wasn't afraid to share it and my dad was usually his first person to call. So as heartbroken and blindsided as everyone was, the worst thing was being plagued by the question of why. But just a few weeks later, dad gets a call from the county sheriff who asks if he can stop by to have a talk with him.

Dad said he had no idea what the sheriff might want to talk about, but wasn't suspicious of anything because they'd been in touch quite often since he found his brother's body. But when he got there, and said what he had to say, it changed everything. In the weeks that followed Uncle Joe taking his own life, the local sheriff's department conducted a thorough investigation into the incident. They didn't want to speculate on what might have happened until they had all the available evidence, but once they did, an extremely chilling picture began to emerge, one that was all summed up in Joe's note. As you already know, all Joe did was hang himself in his closet, but according to the note,

that's not what he planned to do as it contained a long-winded apology on why he had to kill his whole family. He hadn't just planned on taking his own life, he had planned on killing my dad, my mom, and me, along with lord knows who else before he finally decided to check out early. Obviously Uncle Joe hadn't done that, he hadn't hurt anyone but himself, but there was also no mention or explanation in this note as to why he hadn't followed through with his plan. He'd obviously put some degree of thought into it. All his guns were loaded up and ready to rock, and all the spare ammo that he was packing suggested that he was planning on killing way more people than just me and my parents. But then, for some reason, when it came to actually going through with it,

I guess he had second thoughts. Maybe he did what he did as a way of protecting us. I mean, that's what I choose to believe anyway. As for my parents, they don't know what to think, and when it came to that part of the conversation, my dad excused himself and left the room. Mom was still angry, and she said it wasn't at me for bringing it up, but you could tell she'd rather have kept the whole thing buried. If they didn't tell me, I might have gone digging for

info myself and with Uncle Joe's death certificate being up in that attic too, it was only a matter of time before I uncovered it of my own volition. Mom later told me that she gets mad because dad has the same take that I do. That in a weird way, Uncle Joe is kind of a hero for what he did. It's like he killed the monster who was going to kill us. It's just that monster was him, somewhere inside his own head. I know that's messed up to say because ideally Uncle Joe didn't do any of that stuff and went and got himself whatever help he needed.

That's what makes my mom so mad too is how my dad thinks of Joe as some kind of saint when on any other day he's driving over and gunning us down along with God knows how many other people. But he didn't do that because whoever planned on killing, I choose to believe that wasn't my Uncle Joe. I'm not saying it was the devil or anything, but something took control of him, like a bug in a video game or something. His code went all wrong for a second, and when he realized what he was about to do, it scared him so bad that he... He did what he did, before I could take control of him again. Like I said, in an ideal world Uncle Joe is still alive, but we don't live in an ideal world and we gotta take our heroes wherever we can get them. So I guess it's rest in peace Uncle Joe. I wish I understood what happened to you, but I guess the next best thing is being alive to wonder.

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Hey, are you looking for a true crime podcast to binge? Check out True Crime Obsessed, where we recap the true crime documentaries everyone's talking about. We've been one of the top true crime podcasts for almost nine years. And we have over 400 episodes for you to check out right now. We cover the cases everyone is talking about, and we also highlight the cases that have been underreported, overlooked, or forgotten. With over 30,000 five-star reviews on Apple Podcasts, if you've never checked out True Crime Obsessed, now's the time to give us a try. I was really young when my family fell apart. Too young to really understand what's going on, but old enough for it to hurt like hell. My dad disappeared, and then my oldest sister moved out to California.

Mom got depressed, sometimes stayed in bed all day, and for me and my siblings, we went through some pretty long rough patches before we finally came to terms with what happened. And I think that only happened once dad died. He wasn't interested in seeing or talking to us, which hurt as much as you can imagine. And then one day, we heard he was found dead, up in some Wisconsin trailer park, having basically drank himself to death. There was a funeral, which we well well attended but our oldest sister didn't show up again until many years later and this time at the funeral for my mom. My brother and sister

weren't interested in talking to her and I get it. She acted in almost the exact same way dad did. Not wanting to talk to us. Not wanting to see us. Not even just a little so we could at least hope of putting the family back together. So when she did finally show back up again, and did so purely on her own terms, our brother and younger sister united against her and it was up to me to form the very morbid welcoming committee. I invited her to stay with me and my wife while she was back in town but she declined and booked a hotel room instead. But then, the afternoon after the funeral, where we had a pretty good catch up, she called and asked if she could come over for coffee. She was leaving town again the next day due to work commitments and since our siblings still weren't returning her calls, she figured why not spend an evening with the only family member who would. I thought she just wanted to hang out and continue the catch up but as it turned out she had

something very specific she wanted to tell me and at first I didn't even know if I actually wanted to hear it. The first inkling I had that she was about to drop something significant on me was when she asked if we could get some privacy. I had my suspicions that the meeting might be an emotional one, as there was no telling when we'd see each other again, so I simply brewed us a pot of coffee and then we went upstairs to my office to talk. My sister gave me a lot of backstory, but the gist of it was this. She told me the reason our family fell apart back when I was still in elementary school, and hearing it made my head spin. I've been loosely aware of the existence of an aunt on my dad's side,

but we never spoke to her or saw her even when things were going good for us, and there was also a good reason for that. My aunt was crazy, which wouldn't have necessarily been a major problem on its own, but by the sounds of it, she had one hell of a criminal streak too. She drank, used drugs, she dabbled in selling her own body, and she hung out with some very bad people. Any kind of ally she had, she used up and spat out in a depressingly familiar routine. She'd play on your kindness, get whatever she needed, whether it be money,

a place to stay, or a ride to heck knows where, and then she'd be gone again. Any promise of future sobriety having completely evaporated. This happened time and time again until finally everyone got sick of her and just cut her off financially. They still made time for her, but there were no more interventions and no more money wiring to random bank accounts. Anyway, right around the time I was in second grade, my aunt calls my dad with yet another request for money. Only this time, it was different. The payment isn't to some shady bank account and the request doesn't involve wiring cash to some crackhead truck stop. My aunt wanted

$3,000 sent to a rehab center up in Toronto. She wanted to get clean, she just needed to get away from her old stomping grounds and when my dad asked what had inspired the change, she said that she'd come into some money, enough for a new start, and she didn't want to risk blowing it on drugs. Dad apparently asked why she couldn't just pay for the rehab herself, and she gave some excuse about not having access to the money yet, blah blah blah, something that sounded like a lie anyway. Any other time, my dad would have told her to get lost, but as I said, that time seemed different. The rehab center was legit, all the bank account numbers lined up, there was no way it was any kind of scam. And so, dad took a chance, paid the money and just hoped for the best.

He didn't even want it back, he just hoped my aunt would finally get herself clean like she'd always promised she would. A few days later, dad gets a call from my aunt saying that she's checked into the rehab center, she's doing well, and that she'll give him a call again as soon as possible. Things were apparently looking up. My aunt seemed brighter and clearer on the phone and for the first time in a long time, dad started to believe that my aunt could get herself sober. About a week goes by and then late one night, way after me and my siblings had been put to bed, there was a knock at the door. On the doorstep, my dad is greeted by

a friendly-seeming guy who asks to come in so they can talk about his sister. The guy assures my dad that he's a friend of my aunt's and there's only a small problem they need to iron out and that he'll be out of his hair in just a few minutes if my dad can be of help. Dad was apparently very unsure of the man so he opted to talk to him right there on the doorstep. The man insisted that they talk somewhere more private but still my dad won't invite him inside. He was worried the guy was looking for my aunt for bad reasons, not good ones, and he was right. The man explained that my sister had made the mistake of stealing from some very bad people, and they knew it was her because only she and one other girl that had disappeared when the theft was discovered. The guy then explained that all they wanted to do was talk to my aunt and get back what had been taken from them.

At first, dad played dumb and pretended not to know where my aunt was, but somehow the guy just knew. Or maybe he didn't and it was all one big bluff, but at that, the guy turns up the heat. He points off to a car parked down the street and explained that if my dad didn't tell them where my aunt was, three men were going to walk up to the house, smash their way inside, then kill everyone, no questions asked. They wanted my aunt, and if they had to bring her back with a family funeral, then so be it. Even if she skipped the funeral, we'd be buried in town. She'd come back eventually, in which case they'd just wait to nab her then. There was no thinking it over either. My aunt had stolen a lot of money, so time was of the essence.

Either my dad told him where she was, or we all died that night. I don't know what it was that convinced my dad that the guy was for real, but there must have been something, because he didn't try and call the guy's bluff. He told the man where my aunt was and then watched him leave before closing the door. How do we know all that so accurately? Because my eldest sister heard almost every single word and when no one came to smash their way into the house she put two and two together. Over the next few years the guilt ate my dad alive. Only he and my oldest sister knew what had happened that night and they never said a word to anyone. He couldn't stand the guilt and she couldn't stand him for giving up his sister to someone who most probably killed her.

And that's the thing too, we don't even know for certain. My sister and I had her declared a missing person up in Canada and officially, she's on some database just waiting to be found and identified. But we also know that some bodies are never found and if she was indeed killed by the people she stole from, then we might never know who did the deed or where they disposed of her. I remember how sometime after we had our aunt declared a missing person up in Ontario, I asked my sister how she felt about the whole thing. I've been wrestling with a lot of different thoughts in the time since she told me, the primary one being how my dad could have maybe tried a little harder to throw the guy off the scent. Those men wanted to get their hands on one person and one person alone, my aunt. There's no way that they'd have risked six bodies instead of just one. I'm maybe 60-70% certain that the guy was bluffing, and if my dad had put on good enough performance, then they'd have left.

But then, I'm also pretty sure that if they'd found out that my dad had lied, or helped my aunt get away with the money, and whoever was stolen from would see him as a part of the plot. They might not have killed us all that night when that guy showed up on our doorstep, but if they were serious, then they'd have to come back for sure once they figured out that my dad had known where she was. That's basically the answer my sister gave too, just with a slightly different flavor. She doesn't even think the rehab thing was real, since the center our aunt was attending could have refunded her money and let her walk out with the cash. Some privately run centers let you do that,

they're under no obligation to detain you, and they operate very much on the customer is always right sort of basis. My sister thinks our aunt checked in, took a shower, ate dinner, then checked out again the next morning, saying that she didn't feel the regimen was for her. She then calls my dad on the way out, reassures him she's doing good, and then basically just kind of disappeared. The cops up in Canada say there's no evidence of any foul play and that our aunt might still be alive and well, possibly even living there illegally under an assumed identity. But both my sister and me, we think otherwise. Those guys,

whoever they were that our aunt had stolen from, they never made a return visit. If dad had told them where she was and she wasn't there when their goons arrived in Toronto, there had for sure been hell to pay. But they didn't come back and to us, that's the strongest evidence possible that they tracked her down, found her, and made her disappear in a way that you don't come back from. What's worse, dad isn't around anymore to tell us about it. I guess he figured that we'd never understand why he did what he did and that he'd think that he'd have blood on his hands. If he'd only known how wrong he was about that

would he still have let the guilt eat him alive until his liver gave out and he died alone and in pain? Maybe yes, maybe no. I've learned that's not for me to say or dwell on too much. But I'd like to think that one day I'll get a chance to tell him how much I appreciate him and what he did. Because my father didn't sacrifice his sister for our safety. She was doomed long before that. He sacrificed his own sanity for us and as messed up and poisonous as the whole situation is, I wish he knew just how much I understand and appreciate what he did for us, even if living with it ended up killing him. Around the time that I was nine or ten years old, my immediate family stopped paying visits to my maternal grandmother.

I remember it taking me what seems like an unusual amount of time to figure out that we weren't seeing her anymore and when I did, I just sort of didn't question it. I know that might sound very callous but I think even though I was very young I realized what a sensitive subject it was. At that age, it was inconceivable that I'd ever just stop talking to my mom and so I suppose the idea frightened me so much that I just compartmentalized it in a way that only kids seem able to. As I got older, I learned that they didn't talk anymore because they'd had a particularly vicious argument one day and simply decided not to see each other anymore. They hadn't had the best of relationships when my mom was a kid, but as much as there seemed to be a lot of backstory, I don't want to ask about it.

It was all just so sad and whenever she talked about it, the subject always had mom on the verge of tears. And then as I got older, I started to feel a huge amount of contempt for my grandma because whatever the hell she'd done, it had left my mom heartbroken and there was just no other word for it. I was more than happy to forget about a person that had hurt my mom that much, and it didn't matter one bit if she was a blood relative or not. But then one day, around Thanksgiving of 2017, mom called me with some news. Grandma was dying, and if I wanted to see her before she passed, I'd have to do so that week or risk traveling up to her too late. Knowing she was on death's door changed a lot for me and I strongly considered going to visit her in whatever home

or hospice she was in. But then when I asked where the place was, the answer that came back almost knocked me off my feet. For a start, I was actually kind of surprised that grandma was even still alive. I'd considered the possibility that she'd passed and we simply hadn't heard about it, so knowing we had one last chance to make peace with her was definitely a big perspective changer. I asked mom if she'd be heading up to visit grandma and when she said no, I asked where grandma actually was. Mom paused and then said, she's up in Burlington at a place called Chittenden. The name didn't ring any bells for me, nor should it now that I think about it. I asked mom if Chittenden was like the name of her residential home or something and

the reply came back word for word, Chittenden RCF honey, your grandma is in prison. You know sometimes people will ask you, are you sitting down before they give you some crazy piece of bad news? I know why they ask that now, and I'm not saying I got anywhere close to passing out, but for a second or two, I completely retreated inside of myself. I couldn't think of a single word to say for what felt like a full 60 seconds. It was like a psychic bottleneck or something. A thousand questions tried to get out at once and as a result, not a single one made it out of my mouth. I briefly considered driving over to my mom's place so we could talk it out in person

as a conversation like that seemed too weighty for a phone call. But then I just couldn't wait. With each passing second, the curiosity burned brighter and brighter until all I could do was sit myself down on my couch, cradle my head in my hands and over a loudspeaker, ask my mom to tell me everything. Like I said, mom had a pretty rough childhood and grandma was basically the root cause of it. I wouldn't go so far as to call her a psycho or anything because honestly, that seems like an insult to psychos everywhere. Because according to mom, grandma's cruelty wasn't chaotic, it was calculated. I won't go into every

little instance of abuse because we'd be here all day if so, and so instead, just take my word that she was quite possibly the worst mother I've ever heard of. Mom put up with it for years until she finally realized that just because it was her mom doing it didn't make it okay. This happened right around the time I was born too because I guess it had her reflecting on what our relationship might be like. But then, surprisingly, grandma at least attempted to change her ways. I guess she knew that if she didn't, there's no chance of her developing a relationship with her grandkids, and that change in her behavior meant that until my age was approaching double digits, we either visited her, or she visited us, at least once or twice a month.

That one day, totally out of the blue, mom gets a call from a man claiming to be grandma's attorney. Grandma was in jail, and the charges were serious. Mom said she thought the charges might be DUI related, that maybe she'd hit a car driving drunk or god forbid, maybe even hurt someone too. But regardless of the specifics, mom starts asking the attorney about the whole bail process because she'd never had to bail anyone out of jail before. And that's when the attorney tells her that bail would be in the region of half a million dollars. Mom said she felt her stomach tying itself in knots when she heard that number, as it told her everything she needed to know about the severity of the crime. Grandma hadn't just been caught driving after one too many.

Whatever she'd done, she was looking at a lengthy prison sentence for it. But what the hell could she have done to warrant such a punishment? And when the answer came back, Mom said she felt her stomach tying itself in knots when she heard that number, and it told her everything she needed to know about the severity of the crime. Grandma hadn't just been caught driving after one too many. Whatever she'd done, she was looking at a lengthy prison sentence for it. But what the hell could she have done to warrant such a punishment? When the answer came back, mom said she had to pick her jaw up off the floor.

It just didn't seem real. Grandma was being charged with four counts of solicitation to commit murder, four counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and one count of being an accessory to murder. Long story short, grandma had been in a long-running dispute with one of her neighbors, some family of young professionals who had two young children. We never found out exactly what it was over, but instead of moving or building a higher fence or something, Grandma came up with a different kind of solution to the not-so-neighborly rivalry. She went on the internet and tried to hire a contract killer.

I don't know if she just wasn't all that computer literate, or it was just all the craziness coming out of her. But the story goes that Grandma plugged in how to hire a hitman into Google, and after an indeterminate period of time, she found herself exchanging emails with a man who claimed to run a secretive murder-for-hire business. Grandma was willing to blow the vast majority of her life savings in her attempt to hire a guy to kill her neighbors, not just the two parents either. She wanted the whole family dead in as nasty and brutal a way as possible. Well, as it turns out, the person that she was talking to wasn't some killer-for-hire.

Grandma had been talking to an undercover cop the whole time. I think if it were a movie, it might actually be kind of funny. The sweet old lady paying some mafia people to whack her neighbors over some dog poop. But the reality isn't funny at all, and it should give you an idea of how grandma was actually the total opposite of a sweet old lady. She was psycho, probably with some severe but undiagnosed mental illness, but that's still no excuse for making my mom's life a living hell for the first 20 years of her life, and only then being barely tolerable once mom had escaped her clutches. She was willing to pay a hell of a lot of money to ensure that the two

children next door, one of which was a literal infant at the time of her arrest, suffered unimaginable pain and suffering before they died. And all because of some bizarre perceived slight on her part, something the neighbors were barely aware that they'd done in the first place. I didn't go up to visit her, and about a month later, word filtered down to us that she'd passed away. Prison officials said her final words involved giving her possessions to an old cellmate. She made no mention of her family at all.

Sometimes I think that if I had wanted to see her, she wouldn't even have recognized me. But that's okay, because I wouldn't have recognized her either, especially not after learning of the woman. She truly was. For a long time, what I'm about to tell you remained my family's deepest, darkest secret. Certain individuals would have been more than happy for it to remain that way too. Their thinking was, what people don't know can't hurt them. But others disagreed. When my aunt passed away following a long drawn out battle with cancer, she gave her attorney a very specific set of instructions, and one of them involved delivering a package of old documents to me personally. Upon opening it, one of the first things I laid eyes on were

these newspaper clippings of birth announcements for two children. Some were much shorter than others and didn't reveal all that much info, but others revealed the names of the parents, along with their last name. It was my last name, and the parents' names were the same as my parents'. Apparently, I had two older siblings, a brother and a sister, who should have been at least 10-15 years older than me, but I was raised as an only child. So what happened to my older brother and sister? What happened next is a long and drawn out story that took place over the course of about three and a half months, so I won't bore you with every little detail and update because that would take hours to write out otherwise.

Basically, way before I was born, my mom and dad had two other kids and lived someplace far from where I was raised. Then one day, my dad came home from work to find mom sitting in the TV room, staring at the blank, switched off TV. She was catatonic, wouldn't respond to my dad or any other stimulus for that matter, and when he went upstairs to look for my brother and sister, he found my sister tucked in bed, soaking wet, while my brother was still lying in the bathtub. Mom had drowned them both. Somehow she was only kept locked up in some psych unit for around five to six years and then she was released again in the care of my dad. Everyone advised them not to have any more children but my parents ignored all advice,

moved across the country to escape all the naysayers and unwanted attention, and then a short time afterward, I was born. It took quite a while to put this all together, and the entire time, despite showing up on one occasion with tangible physical evidence of what had happened, my parents denied the entire thing. It was all the denial that made me want to go no contact with them because there was so much I needed to discuss with them, but they wouldn't grant me any kind of explanation. I was the kid that never should have been born. Ungrateful for life, but acutely aware of how irresponsible it was for my parents to have another child, that child being me. I felt like at the very minimum I was owed some kind of

explanation but apparently neither mom or dad saw fit to give me one. And I've tried therapy, but the only thing it helped me realize is that this isn't something I can resolve without my parents' help. I've reached out on occasion just to check in on them and ask if they're finally ready to talk to me about what happened, but thus far, every attempt has been denied. I hope that one day they'll be ready to talk about it, or at least one of them will be ready to talk about it. But every day that passes, the time I have left with them gets shorter and shorter and sometimes, I think they'll never be ready. I'm scared that the only things I'll have to connect me to the brother and sister I never met are old newspaper clippings and unanswered questions. It was the Christmas holiday of 2015.

My grandparents on my dad's side were flying in to celebrate with us. I joined my folks for the drive to the airport. The whole way there I fantasized about what I'd get come Christmas morning. Toys no longer interested me. I had been promised a mountain bike for my birthday, but it never arrived. Maybe this coming holiday was my chance. A laptop or console was an option too. I was 14 that year and things in my life were starting to change. I wasn't sure about anything anymore, to be honest. Most of my friends no longer had time for me and I was starting to feel unwanted. The only times I felt normal was when I was out in

nature or locked in my room playing games. Even then I knew it wasn't healthy for me, but what was I going to do? I wanted to talk to my parents about it, but I didn't think they'd understand. Their time in school had been completely different. Both were involved in sports and popular with their peers. My experience was the exact opposite. How is the prom king going to understand what it's like for a nobody, I would think to myself. My grandparents were already waiting at the curb when we arrived. Dad and I helped load their bags into the car. I was looking for any odd-shaped or strange objects, but nothing stood out.

The ride home was much like the ride there. I was lost in my thoughts most of the time, only occasionally being interrupted by a question from one of my grandparents. The endless miles of open fields were a welcome change. I'd rack my brain attempting to identify the birds that flew past and the trees that lined the fence lines. These were the few things in life that never changed, or so I thought. And like I said, I was a very confused and lost young man at this time. Nothing and no one made any sense to me. The next couple of days were normal. I decided to stay back at home while everyone did their last minute shopping.

I reasoned that I'd be more likely to get things I wanted if I wasn't around. On Christmas Eve, we all got together around the tree and exchanged gifts. It was your run-of-the-mill event where I opened my grandparents' packages and pretended that I was overwhelmed by receiving the same socks and sweater I got every year. Now I know I sound ungrateful, but let's be honest. When you're that age, the last thing you wanted was an assortment of underwear. The next morning was what I couldn't wait for. My heart had been set on a bike for the last few years. I'd even shown my parents the exact model I wanted in everything.

As my birthday approached, they dropped hint after hint. By the time it arrived, I was hyped beyond belief. My folks had seen the disappointment on my face when I realized that I wasn't getting it. The iPhone, a present any other time I would have been excited about, was going to have to do. I barely slept that night. The second the sun broke through the blinds, I was out of bed and down the stairs, and my folks were already sitting at the table waiting for me to arrive. I turned the corner so fast that I almost missed it. Sitting there, right in the middle of the

den, was a brand new mountain bike. Not just any mountain bike either, it was the exact specialized one that I'd been ranting and raving about for the last two years. I was so focused on the bike that I didn't even notice the other boxes under the tree. My mom had to point them out to me. Rather than spend any more time away from my beautiful bike than I needed, I ran over and snatched the boxes and brought them back to the center of the den. I wasn't expecting much else, maybe some clothes or a few games, but to my utter amazement, there was a MacBook along with a set of studio monitors in the others. This was like three Christmases wrapped up in one. I now know my parents had felt bad about not getting the bike on my birthday and decided to spend a little extras this year to make up for it, and I spent the remainder of the day alone enjoying my amazing

presence. The weather prevented me from riding too much, but I made the best of the time that I did get. When it got too dark to ride, I set up my laptop, got online, and mocked those less fortunate than me late in the morning. I slept in late the next day. It was just afternoon when I came down for breakfast. I grabbed something small and helped my dad carry all the boxes to the curb. It looked like a Best Buy out there. Not only did I get the MacBook and monitors, but my mom also bought dad a 65-inch TV for the den.

It was a great Christmas for everyone. At least until the robbery happened. We didn't know it at the time, but those boxes were like the bat signal for criminals. It was a painful learning experience, but one we'd never repeat again. We'd all be tied up and gagged in less than an hour, just because of a pile of trash. It was around two in the afternoon and I was browsing the internet for cool things to pimp out my bike with. All I heard was a bunch of yelling in the kitchen. I came out and was met with a gun in my face. All I saw was the gun and I froze up.

The guy yelled at me to move but I was too scared to. He grabbed me by the arm and shoved me toward the den. Everybody else was already grouped together, waiting to be told what to do next. I'm proud of how calm my dad was. He kept us cool and promised the robbers that we'd do what we were told. They were free to take whatever they wanted. And we wouldn't resist. I guess they weren't going to take the risk though. When one guy held us up at gunpoint, two others bound our hands and blindfolded us with duct tape. When that was done, a voice told me to lie on my stomach. He didn't give me a chance to do it myself. I was pushed and fell forward. The landing knocked the wind out of me for a minute, and the duct tape around my mouth made it hard to regain my breath. A few seconds later I heard the same voice say, go, and the noise of multiple footsteps

shook the floor. I was too terrified to say anything, I just laid there and prayed that it would go fast. The sound of the garage door opening got my attention. That was followed by the noise of what I guessed was some large truck. The knocking of the diesel engine was very distinctive and the next few minutes were just the sound of feet rushing through the house and out to the garage. None of the men spoke as far as I could tell. Probably no more than ten minutes passed before I heard the door out to the garage close and then complete silence. Maybe a minute went by and my dad asked if everyone was okay. I waited for a voice to tell him to shut up, but it never did. I was confident

enough to begin struggling with the tape around my wrist. I twisted and pulled as hard as I could until the tape snapped. Dad was already free and undoing my grandfather's hands when I got the tape off my eyes. And while dad finished getting everyone loose, I rushed to my room. And my worst fear was realized. Not only were my brand new Mac and speakers gone, but my bike was gone too. And it felt like a knife in my gut. When I returned to the den, dad was on the phone with 911. I was still in shock, but I remember mom was especially upset that the robbers had taken dad's new TV. I knew he'd wanted a big TV like that for a long time. It was like being trapped in some nightmare.

All I could do was just sit on the couch and bury my face in my hands until the cops arrived. I kept my mouth shut and let the adults deal with the police. I was in no mood to talk anyway. That sick feeling in my gut stuck with me for the rest of the day and I tossed and turned most of the night. I stayed in my room for the next few days, browsing the internet, trying to get my mind off of the robbery. I still had my old laptop because I'd packed it away under my bed. I guess the thieves were only interested in what they could see. The few times that I did come out of my room, I noticed a shell-shocked look on everybody's face. I probably looked the same too, and when it came time to take my grandparents to the airport, I just chose to

stay home. My parents had lost a lot of expensive things, including both of their engagement rings. I didn't dare mention my bike and computer for fear of sounding like some sort of spoiled little brat. And as the weeks went by, a few of the more important things were replaced and we all tried to move ahead with our lives. Updates about the case were few and far between, and this group was obviously professional. Without any names or visual identifications, they all wore masks and gloves, the chances of them getting caught were low. We did learn that they had committed a similar home invasion a few days later across town. It wasn't the objects we lost that made things so

terrible. Despite losing a lot of expensive and sentimental objects, it was the feeling of violation that was the worst, at least for me. Everyone in the house became a lot more security focused after that. New, stronger locks and cameras were installed, and I even put a lock on my bedroom and closet door. I took to locking all my valuables in my closet any time I left the house. Most importantly, we never left our boxes out like that ever again. Over a year later, we were shocked to hear that a group with the exact same style of operation had been arrested during another home invasion. All but two of the men admitted to taking part in the robbery of our home. Of course, all of our valuables had been sold long ago and were never to be recovered.

The three who had confessed took a plea deal and served a few years in prison. I have no clue what became of them after that. Although the robbery has left us all pretty shaken up, my dad decided that we weren't going to live in fear, and that next Christmas was celebrated just as before. The sting of losing that bike stayed with me for a while, but I'd long given up hope of ever having one like that again. And that's what made my 18th birthday surprise that much more special. Not only was it a mountain bike, but it was the most up-to-date version of the one that I'd lost a few years before. It's seen a lot of miles since then, but it remains the most special gift I've ever received. Hey, are you looking for a true crime podcast to binge?

Check out True Crime Obsessed, where we recap the true crime documentaries everyone's talking about. We've been one of the top true crime podcasts for almost nine years. And we have over 400 episodes for you to check out right now. We cover the cases everyone is talking about, and we also highlight the cases that have been underreported, overlooked, or forgotten. With over 30,000 five-star reviews on Apple Podcasts, if you've never checked out True Crime Obsessed, now's the time to give us a try. Find True Crime Obsessed wherever you get your podcasts. I moved into the neighborhood a few weeks before the 2015 school year started. The ad I answered gave little more than the basic information about the house, a mid-century three-bedroom near the high school.

Since I would be working at the school, it sounded perfect. After I took a quick look around, I paid the deposit and the first month's rent. The move didn't take more than a day I'd say and my first full day there was a sunny cool Saturday and just as I sat down to lunch that afternoon I heard a knock at my door. It was a bit of a surprise, I really wasn't expecting anyone and upon opening the door I was greeted by a small group of elderly people. They had bright smiles and some held covered dishes in their hands. I must have seemed unwelcoming but I was so shocked that I wasn't sure what to say.

A moment passed before a very tall, thin man with a deep voice and salt and pepper hair stepped forward and introduced himself. He said his name was Gordon. They were all there to welcome me to the neighborhood. I couldn't think of anything else but to just welcome them in. We all grouped up together in the living room. My guests found their seats where they could and introduced themselves. Meanwhile, those who'd brought food opened the containers and began dishing it out. And that was when I realized that this was a housewarming party. It was like something out of the 1950s. This group of people, many who probably grew up at the time, were welcoming me to the neighborhood with open arms. I was witnessing an aspect of America that I thought had died long ago, if it ever really existed at all. Before I had the opportunity to take in my surroundings,

I was sitting in a room full of complete strangers, beer in hand, telling them my life story. It was an experience unlike anything I've ever had, and I loved every minute of it. And that was how it all began for me, and how I met my sort of new family. And from that day forward, I spent as much time as I could spare getting to know everyone. Not everyone was quite as welcoming as the rest. There were a few grumpy old guys who disliked me for whatever reason, but they stayed to themselves for the most part. We agreed to disagree, I guess you could say. The overwhelming number, however, had been the kindest and most helpful people I'd ever met.

Being young and unskilled as I was, especially then, I found myself seeking advice from my older neighbors probably more often than I'd care to admit. Not once was I treated like the clueless little boy that I often viewed myself as. I discovered that despite most of these ladies and gentlemen being white-collar business people and educators, they still knew what it took to maintain a home. And in hindsight, it should have been obvious considering most had lived in these houses a majority of their adult lives. And I quickly learned how little college had done to prepare me for my future. And only now had my true education begun. During my time living here, I have grown close to many of these nearby,

but one couple in particular are like my second set of parents. I'll refer to them as the Joneses for just sake of anonymity. When Pam and Ed discovered that I was a teacher, they took me under their wing immediately. Both of them had only recently retired from the university themselves. The two had met earlier in their careers as professors and would gradually fall in love. Ed and I also shared an obsession for medieval history. An obsession that would often lead to late-night discussions of our personal views on this or that event. Pam was no slouch herself.

Her work in mathematics and physics won her several awards, and not to mention that much of the physics textbooks her employer used had been written by her. Enjoying one another's company as we did, we eventually started meeting every Sunday for brunch to enjoy a good meal and to discuss whatever subjects that came to mind. It would be one of these Sundays in which the following story occurred. Somewhere around 10.30am that morning, I left the house and headed to Pam and Ed's, and along the way, I ran into another neighbor, Tom Valentine. Tom had been a lifelong businessman and entrepreneur until he sold his final company and retired. We talked about routine gardening and lawn care for 15 or so minutes until I continued my walk. I was maybe 50 yards from Pam and Ed's when I saw a black van back into their driveway and four men get out. I thought they were possibly delivering

something until I saw them pull masks over their faces and run toward the door. I wasn't sure what was happening but it seemed wise to just contact the police regardless. I ran back to Tom's house and let him know what I'd just seen and he called 911 right away and we waited for the police to arrive. It felt like forever but it probably wasn't very long. Tom, his wife and I watched the Jones house as the cops arrived and surrounded it. Officers had just rounded the corner when we started hearing yelling. I braced for some gunfire that I was sure was coming, but fortunately, these criminals surrendered without a fight, and one by one, the men were led in handcuffs to police cars. And none of us took a chance to relax yet. We still had no clue if Pam and Ed were okay. Minutes passed, but there was no sign

of either one. When an ambulance arrived, I threw caution to the wind and ran down to the house. A few of the other neighbors were starting to show up too. An officer stepped forward and asked us to stay back, and I couldn't stand the wait and I asked if the residents had been hurt. He didn't answer. I was becoming very agitated now. The lack of information was getting to me. And to my relief, a moment later, Pam stepped out quickly followed by Ed. A couple of officers walked them to the ambulance where a paramedic examined them for injuries. Other than being terrified and a little scuffed up from being locked in the basement,

they appeared to be alright. I rushed over to where they were and gave them both a big hug, and more than a few tears were shed also, and I was so very relieved. Once everything was said and done and the authorities went on their way, I insisted Pam and Ed let me take them out. We had a very nice meal and spent the remainder of the day attempting to regain some small bit of normalcy. It's hard to leave that evening, but I could tell that they needed some time to themselves to deal with what had just happened. The Joneses were classy but tough people. I was confident that they'd bounce back, and they did. As usual, we met back up the following Sunday, and the robbery was

never spoken of. Fortunately, the robbers had all taken pleas and went to prison where they belong, in my opinion. I'm not sure where they are today, but as long as they're nowhere near me or those I love, I'm okay with that. Currently, I'm still living in the same neighborhood. A few of my friends have passed on, but many remain. My Sunday brunches, although not as routine as they once were, still occur when possible. Ed's medical problems have gotten in the way of him enjoying life like he used to, but I give Pam a helping hand whenever I can. It's painful to see those I love die and suffer, but I really wouldn't live anywhere else. Now before I share the incident that led to my incarceration, I should probably talk about how

I found myself in the position to make such a foolish decision in the first place. I really had an ideal upbringing. My parents are still married and love each other as much as they love me, and both had well-paying jobs and we never went without. I was an only child, which might have made me spoiled, but I wasn't allowed to get away with misbehavior or anything like that, and our house was in a safe area of town filled with other happy families just like ours. I never lacked friends or opportunities to be around well-behaved, respectable kids. Even as I entered high school, there were no signs that I was about to take a wrong turn. Essentially, I had all the advantages a kid could dream of, yet I still ended up on a very destructive path.

And it just goes to show that some of us are capable of ruining our lives on our own. And that's my story for sure. The problems started during my freshman year. There was nothing about the stoners that drew me towards them. I loved their music, clothing, and attitude. Everything about their lifestyle appealed to me. I spent time with them whenever possible, and they seemed to accept me from the very beginning. And before long, I was well on my way to becoming just like them. By the end of the first year, I was habitually smoking cigarettes and using pot on the weekends. I was undergoing a gradual transformation.

Although I still maintained the kind, well-mannered demeanor that I'd been raised with, there was a growing restlessness beneath that polished exterior. I was tired of being nice to everyone at the expense of my own feelings. It was a no more Mr. Nice Guy kind of situation, you know. I wouldn't turn the other cheek anymore. If my parents noticed any changes in me, they didn't mention it. In their eyes, I must have still been their little boy. Even if they had said something, it likely wouldn't have made a difference. And it was a path every young person really must navigate on their own, but I took a wrong turn somewhere along the way. And throughout the remainder of school, my attitude in grades took a significant downturn. By now, I was too intoxicated to focus

on classes, and there were times that I really didn't even bother attending. Most of the time, we'd meet up outside of school and find a place to pass the time, away from prying adults and other kids. I could recount all the adventures that we had and the crazy things I witnessed, but that would take all day. And suffice to say, before my junior year, I had already repeated a year and was just a month away from dropping out completely. Despite my parents begging and pleading, there was nothing they could do to stop me. As much as I loved them, they held no power over me anymore, and their little boy was descending very deep.

And unless they were prepared to chain me to some radiator, I was going to do whatever I wanted. Once I reached legal adulthood, that's when the real problems began. I moved into a run-down apartment with three or four other individuals who were also sort of on that downward spiral. People came and went at all hours of the day and night, and to be honest, I'm not sure whose name was on the lease. Somehow, I managed to stay sober long enough to obtain my GED and find a job washing dishes. The restaurant was sort of like a pharmacy. If you wanted it, someone could get it for you. One night while partying with some of my co-workers, I made the unfortunate decision

to try heroin. And that turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. And in no time, I was addicted. I was spending entire paychecks on drugs and didn't care. The days that I went without, it was just a living nightmare, and I soon became desperate enough to sell my car. That made working much harder, but it didn't matter as long as I could score. Junkies don't tend to think about the long term, and when the aches and pains start, you're only concerned with the here and now. I left the place that I was living in and moved into an even worse situation with a group of other addicts. I wasn't there for very long.

When one of my fellow addicts approached me with a plan to make a lot of money, he insisted that it would be easy, and according to him, we'd go in the middle of the day when no one was home, and we'd be out in no time. I was reluctant, but I was also broke, and my high was wearing off. He kept pressuring me until I reluctantly just agreed. I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. He and I walked about a mile to the house and went back around the back. He said there was an open window there, and sure enough, he was right. We raised it and

quietly slipped inside. I closed it behind me as he waited, and he whispered for me to follow him into the back bedroom where the money was kept. We hurried into the bedroom, and he went straight for the nightstand where he found a small money box, and it was full of cash. After counting it, we had about $300. It was far from the thousands that he had promised, but I didn't care in the moment. Not that we had the money, I just wanted to leave as soon as possible. However, he had other ideas. He started talking about stealing laptops and TVs.

I told him it was a foolish idea. We were standing there arguing when a teenage girl walked into the room and panicked. As soon as she saw us, she bolted. The guy I was with chased after her and I followed him, asking what he was doing. The girl managed to make it to the bathroom and locked herself in. By this point, I was panicking too. I shouted at the guy that we needed to get out of there, but he was still trying to break into the bathroom. When the girl yelled out that she was calling the cops, I had had enough. I turned around and ran out the front door. When I returned to our place, I hid in the closet and just waited for the police. I must have fallen asleep for a few hours and I was awakened by a man's voice yelling,

police, come out. And I knew there and then, it was all over. I slowly opened the closet door, came out with my hands up and an officer placed me in handcuffs before taking me to the car. And that'd be the last time that I'd be free for almost a year. As I expected, that idiot got me arrested and just gave me up. It turned out that he knew the residents of the house. He had dated that girl's older up. It turned out that he knew the residents of the house. He had dated that girl's older sister a few years prior and he knew that she could identify him. I have no idea what he planned to do to her and I don't want to know. I ended up spending the next 11 months in that county jail where I experienced the worst withdrawal of my

entire life. I would never wish that kind of misery on anyone. However, it had one positive aspect. It was so terrible that I never wanted to go through it again, and I've been clean ever since. December 12th of this year will mark my fifth anniversary of sobriety. I don't know if there's any moral to my story other than I don't encourage anyone to go down the path that I have. The problems that come with addiction outweigh any possible benefits that you may be able to come up with, and since I've gotten out, I've been able to renew my relationship with my parents, and I've got a fiancé now, and I can't think of a better way to end the story. That's all. Stay safe, kids.

I just turned 20 when I finally moved into my own place. For almost a year, I didn't do anything but just work and sleep, and my 21st birthday nearly passed without me even realizing it. Fortunately, a friend sent me a text asking what I had planned, and we decided to spend that evening at our favorite club. And that night, we just drank and played pool. A few guys tried to get us back to their place, but I did the smart thing and just went home. When my friend dropped me off, I was in a pretty bad state. I had already barfed once on the way, and I was fighting like crazy not to do it again.

I made it about 20 feet before I felt another puke pushing up through my throat, and my neighbor just so happened to be outside smoking and rushed over to help me. He held my hair back as I retched repeatedly for the next few minutes. He walked me to my door and helped me in when I was finished. I passed out in my living room for the next nine hours. It's not quite the way a girl dreams of meeting her husband, but it was how I met mine. I'd just gotten out of the shower when there was a knock at the door. I peeked out the peephole and was my neighbor. I was too embarrassed to face him, but I didn't want to be rude.

I yelled out for him to wait a moment and quickly threw on some clothes. When I opened the door, I was kind of surprised. In my drunken state, I hadn't noticed how cute he actually was, and this just made me more self-conscious. I couldn't even look him in the face. He asked if I was okay, and I said yes. There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence before he introduced himself as Tyler. I said nice to meet you and slammed the door behind me. I was being rude, and I knew it, but it was still too soon to really face him. And a few days would pass before I got the courage to knock on his door. I apologized for my behavior and thanked him for his health.

He smiled and my heart melted and I'd just feel like I'd fallen in love in that moment. Our relationship moved relatively fast from there. When I wasn't at work and Tyler wasn't at school, we were together. We spent most of our time at his place, and it was much nicer than mine. He comes from a very wealthy family, so all of his stuff was very nice, and that isn't what drew him to me. He's actually a very kind and down-to-earth man, but I'd be lying if

I said that I didn't enjoy lounging in leather chairs and sleeping in ultra-soft cotton sheets. I enjoy being pampered just as much as the next woman. What can I say? Tyler has given me all the attention I needed, but there was one reason that I'd sometimes get jealous early on. Tyler's car. He loved that thing almost as much as life itself. I don't know anything about automobiles, but I remember it was made by BMW and had an M on the back. Don't get me wrong, it was a very nice car, but sometimes I thought that he cared more about it than me. Despite my feelings about it, I was happy to see it go the way it did. This was in 2017. We'd been together nine months when it happened.

We spent the evening at his apartment watching movies, and the two of us were curled up together on the couch, and the windows were cracked, letting in the cool night air. Just after 8pm, there was a knock at the door. Tyler got up to answer it, and I went into the kitchen to get some more wine. I'd just finished up filling my glass when I heard Tyler call me into the living room and I still remember the hint of fear in his voice. When I turned the corner, I saw two guys with masks over their face holding him at gunpoint. One of the men waved me over and told me to give him my phone,

and I did as I was told. I almost dropped it because it was shaking so bad, and Tyler did the same. Then they demanded his wallet. He gave that over too without any resistance, and I started to speak, and one of the men whispered to me to shut up, and I did. They didn't ask for my money, I'm not sure why. I thought they had what they wanted and were going to leave, but then they demanded the key to the car. The pain on Tyler's face was very clear. He tried to bargain with the thieves, but they had obviously come there with one purpose. No amount of begging and pleading was going to stop them. His stalling was starting to annoy them and the taller of the pair warned him to not play any games. He reluctantly gave in and walked over to the table where his keys were. He picked

them up and walked back over to where we stood. At the last moment he drew his hand back. The tall man let out a sort of huff and knocked Tyler across the head with his gun. I screamed, and the other guy barked at me to be quiet. I could only stand and watch as Tyler started to pour blood from his head, and the tall guy quickly said, I warned you, give me the keys now. And Tyler slowly raised his hand as high enough for the shorter guy to snatch them, and now that they had got what they'd come for, they quietly slipped out the door without a word.

The second the door closed, I ran to the bathroom, grabbing a towel. Tyler was just lying on the floor, moaning. I placed the towel on his head, and I asked him to just hold it there while I ran to call 911. At that time, I still had a landline, and I ran across the hall to call for help. Once I was sure an ambulance was coming, I hung up and ran back to be with Tyler. The ambulance arrived within a few minutes and rushed him off to the hospital. Fortunately, he was still awake when he left. I stayed behind to answer questions and then the cops gave me a ride to the hospital.

I waited while they took Tyler for some tests to check for brain swelling and the like, and everything would come back clear, thank God. The doctors kept him overnight for observation, and I stuck around to keep him entertained. We got an Uber back to the apartment later that next day, and I could tell something was just different about him. As we passed the spot where his car was once parked, he stopped and stared for a good minute. He turned and looked at me and said, what was I thinking? I could have died. All because of a stupid car. Tyler's parents did offer him to buy him a new BMW, but he chose a far less flashy model instead. The robbery had made him scared to own anything like that ever again, and he even

stopped wearing his gold Rolex that his mom had bought him for his birthday. And now that he knew people were willing to hurt him or maybe kill him for things like that, they just lost their charm. We decided it was best to try and put the robbery behind us and move on. Even these days, when we're both successful and can afford almost anything, we live a very humble existence. That robbery taught us both something very important. You can have all the money in the world, all the fancy cars and jewelry, but nothing is worth losing your life over. When I was 23, I got a job at a gas station near my apartment. There was a guy about my age who used to always stop in and buy things like beer and papers.

He and I would talk about our common interests and we soon discovered that we actually had a lot in common. He eventually asked me out and we began seeing each other outside of my work. It wasn't anything serious until his roommate moved out. At this point, he invited me to move in and I accepted. And now that we shared the same place, the relationship grew into something more. Even though I had my own bedroom, I slept in his bed with him most nights and my room wasn't much more than a big closet for my clothes after that. After six months passed and our third roommate left, we chose not to look for someone else to replace him. And this did present something of a problem

though. Without his income, we'd have to figure out another way to pay the bills. Mark, which is what we'll call my boyfriend, took a second job delivering pizzas. He was exhausted all the time and hated the work, but he stayed anyway. And then one night, we were drinking with some friends, and one of them offered to front us with some products. We agreed, and that was how we began dealing. I wasn't new to the world of illicit chemicals, but I'd never sold any before. And we started with weed, and things went very well. We only dealt with friends and kept a very low profile. As long as our bills were getting paid and we had food in the pantry,

we were great. The bad times started when we got greedy. Here and there, people asked for stronger stuff and we resisted as long as we could. In hindsight, it was the worst decision we could have ever made. But we wanted to get a house of our own and this sounded like the quickest way to get it. We were put in contact with another group who were willing to supply us with anything we wanted. This one decision would destroy our lives. We didn't realize just how different the customer base was going to be. Mark and I had taken our own share of the hard stuff, but we had always gotten it from friends. Our crowd was pretty chill compared to a lot of the other clientele that we were now serving.

I was used to the laid-back people, the kind of people who'd hang around for a few hours and smoke with you. I met some interesting individuals in the early days, but these new people were a drastic contrast. The rule had always been to have customers hang out for a while to prevent drawing attention. We had to abandon this practice pretty quickly after the upgrade. We were dealing with full-blown addicts now and they wanted nothing more than to score and get their fix. At first I felt sorry for them but as time passed my attitude shifted to one of disgust. Most of these people would gladly sell their own children if given the opportunity.

I know it sounds cruel, but in that short period of time, I saw some truly disgusting things. Had I known what was coming, I would have been afraid instead. I had yet to meet the worst of what mankind had to offer. We'd been selling weed to a young guy named Sean on an offer the last year. He wasn't a particularly talkative guy, but he'd always seemed cool enough. When we expanded the operation, he started coming around a lot more often and asking questions. Looking back, I should have known something was up, but I didn't. Late one Saturday night night he called Mark and

asked if he could come by and pick up an ounce for him and a friend. Mark had the flu and I tried to get him to say no but he assured me that it would just be a quick pickup. He promised that he'd go back to bed after so I reluctantly agreed. About a half an hour later Sean showed up, got his stuff and left. He did seem kind of nervous, but neither Mark nor I paid any mind. He was in and out within a few minutes and Mark was in the kitchen when a knock came at the door. We weren't expecting anyone, but I went to the door just to check. I looked through the peephole and saw Sean. I assumed that he'd forgotten something and opened the door. I hadn't gotten the first word out before he rushed me and pushed me to the ground. A second man ran in right behind

him. I couldn't do anything but yell out to Mark. I'm not sure what happened after I fell but the sound of gunfire filled the apartment almost immediately. All I could see from my position was the second man holding a pistol and firing in the direction of the kitchen. I stumbled back to my feet and ran out of the apartment. The gunfire was still going on when I left and my ears were ringing. We had a neighbor a few units over that we hung out with sometimes. I ran to his place and pounded on the door, and it seemed like forever until he opened it. He saw me and immediately pulled me in.

I guess he heard what was happening because he was on the phone with 911 when I got there. He told me the cops were on their way and I ran back to the apartment to see if Mark was okay. The door was still wide open when I got there. I was terrified Sean and his friends were still there, but I called out to Mark anyway and he he didn't answer and a sick feeling churned in the pit of my stomach. I carefully and slowly walked into the apartment calling for Mark as I went. When I turned the corner into the kitchen I saw him lying against one of the cabinets. He was bleeding badly and I couldn't tell if he was alive. The pistol was still gripped tightly in his hand All of a sudden, I remembered the product

I needed to get rid of it before the cops showed up I ran to our hiding place and found it empty Sean had more than likely planned this a long time ago and chosen that night to act I was actually relieved it was gone, to be honest The garbage had been a source of friction and misery in our lives for a long time, and it was their problem now. A nightmare of a life I wouldn't wish on my own worst enemy. I walked back into the kitchen and sat down next to Mark's body on the floor, and despite all of their hard work, the paramedics couldn't bring

him back. I laid him to rest a few days later and have tried to carry on alone ever since. Sean would get his punishment, just not in the way I had expected. I was never able to identify the second man. The police looked for Sean for a few months until he popped up after being killed attempting to rob yet another dealer. I wish I could say that it was a satisfying end, but I was just sick of all the killing. until he popped up after being killed attempting to rob yet another dealer. I wish I could say that it was a satisfying end, but I was just sick of all the killing. When I got myself into all of this, I didn't see any problem with peddling a little weed to a few friends. It wasn't crack after all. But before I knew it, I was a full-fledged pusher, no better than a common street thug, and I more than likely assisted in

someone's death at least once. I was exploiting people and destroying lives just to make a buck. Seven years on, I still can't help but feel that I had it coming. The pursuit of a quick and easy way to get ahead cost me the man that I loved and left me walking through the next few years confused and riddled with guilt. I don't know if there is a moral to the story. Maybe we could all just treat each other better and try to get along. Is it really that hard? We'll be right now. We cover the cases everyone is talking about, and we also highlight the cases that have been underreported, overlooked, or forgotten. With over 30,000 five-star reviews on Apple Podcasts, if you've never checked out True Crime Obsessed,

now's the time to give us a try. Find True Crime Obsessed wherever you get your podcasts. The story I'm about to tell happened to me when I was 23. At the time, I was living in the Midwest and working as a paralegal. My hometown was halfway across the country and I didn't go back home very often to see my family. My first year away I decided to spend Thanksgiving alone. Flying back and forth two months in a row didn't make financial sense. A week or so prior to the holidays I happened to mention this to my boss and upon hearing this he made me an offer that I really couldn't resist. It just so happened that my family was going out of town for the holiday and they needed someone to house sit while they were gone. He preferred

me over a stranger. All I really had to do was make sure that the pets had food and water and let them out on occasion. And best of all, I'd be getting paid double my usual wage. Needless to say, I accepted immediately. Two days before Thanksgiving, I arrived at the house and got the key and a few last-minute instructions. The family left for the airport soon after and I was left alone with Patches the cat and Oscar the dachshund in this big, beautiful house. My first night there was quiet and uneventful. I ordered a pizza for dinner and hit the hay just after 10pm. I would be awakened the next morning at about 7 by Oscar. I let him out to do his thing and fired up the

coffee pot. While I waited for my breakfast burritos to heat up, I let Oscar back in and poured myself a cup of coffee. Oscar stared at me intensely as I enjoyed my meal and watched the morning news. After breakfast, I got an urge to take Oscar on a walk around the neighborhood. I heard that there was a nature park nearby and I was curious to check it out. I assumed Oscar would love all the new scents too. We walked around there for about an hour and then headed home to start working on dinner. Just because I was spending the holiday alone didn't mean that I wasn't going to stuff myself. I put my pre-cooked chicken in the oven to reheat and began working on the sides. Maybe an hour passed before I began hearing a rattling at the front door. I was going to

ignore it but Oscar started growling. I turned off the stovetop and followed the noise. Oscar ran ahead of me and soon began barking. He seemed pretty worked up and I stopped at the edge of the hallway and peeked around the corner at the door. From where I stood, I could see a human-like form through the glass of the door. It looked like they were trying to get the door open. Oscar was losing his mind now and I was frozen stiff. I had no idea what to do until the door cracked open. Oscar was fighting to get at the person through the narrow space in the door and the person was kicking at him. I knew if I was going to do something, I had to do it now.

So I ran back to the kitchen where my phone was sitting and dialed 911. I could still hear the man yelling at Oscar at the door. That little guy was fighting his heart out, God bless him. The operator had just told me that the cops were on their way when I looked up and came eye to eye with a very tall and skinny man. I don't think that he was expecting me to be there. His eyes went wide open, as was his mouth, and fear overtook me and I started to scream at him to get out. It wasn't long before he turned tail and ran back out the door. Oscar started barking at him again as he ran away. The cops showed up a minute later and I gave them a description of the man.

One of them suggested staying somewhere else for the night but I couldn't leave Oscar all by himself after he fought so hard. Patches showed up around dusk and joined Oscar and me where we were curled up on the couch and watched movies until sunrise on Thanksgiving morning. I was able to eventually doze off for a few hours and got up at about noon to call my boss and let him know what had happened. He was understandably upset and decided that he'd cut the vacation short so they could get back and deal with the legal stuff. The family arrived back in the early hours the next morning and I got home and into my bed about dawn. A few days later,

we were all back at work when I learned a very interesting piece of information. My boss had spent much of his remaining time off speaking with the officers who had been assigned to the case. They had all put the available evidence together and were almost positive who the home invader had been. His name was Brent, and he had worked for the family for several years until my boss was forced to let him go because of his drug problem. Brent was aware that the family went out of town every year, but it was the physical description that ultimately convinced them of his guilt. It didn't take long for the police to catch up with him, and he took a deal for a decreased sentence.

He was back home with his family by the next Christmas. I'm not mad that he got off so lightly. After all, he wasn't violent. It was his drug addiction that had driven him to make such a stupid decision. And I just hope that he's gotten the help now that he needed and isn't suffering as he was. I've since married and moved on to another job in a new city. I've wised up and probably wouldn't suggest any young woman to do something like that by herself, especially with the way things are now. Had I do it all over again, I would have just spent the

money and flown back home to be with my family, and in hindsight, the money didn't make up for not being able to be there with my parents on such an important day. This story takes place in the mid-1980s when my mom was a teenager in high school. My mother and my aunt grew up on a farm in central Florida, which was relatively in the middle of nowhere at the time. We still live in this area, and it's more urbanized now, but at that point in time, it was mostly woods and farmland. My great aunt, uncle, and our cousins lived on the same property in another house so they weren't entirely alone. However, outside that, you'd have to drive a mile or maybe a little less than that before you reach their next neighbor. My grandfather coached for the local high school football team and my mother and aunt were cheerleaders. So on Fridays, he would have to coach at the school's game and

my mom and aunt would be there to cheerlead. The rest of the family would usually come along as well since my cousins went to that school too and there wasn't really anything else to do in that small town on a Friday night. They would usually get to the game earlier than everyone else considering that he was a coach. One particular Friday however my mother started feeling very sick throughout the day and by the time the evening rolled around she felt horrible. She informed my grandfather that she wasn't feeling up to going and that she would be staying home to rest. My grandma made her something to eat for dinner and after that the whole family including my great aunt and great uncle went on their way. She was alone on the property. Now for context we eventually sold this property when I was a young child, so I don't have many memories of my grandparents' property. One thing I can remember

was that it could get very creepy at night, even with other people there, so being alone on it at night must have been a lot more frightening. Anyways, my mom went to lay down right after they left, but long after that, maybe 5 or 10 minutes, she realized that she needed to call her cheerleading coach at the school to let her know that she wasn't going to be there tonight, so that she could be prepared for her absence. Keep in mind, this is the mid-80s, so there were no cell phones. My mom had to get up and walk all the way to the kitchen to use the phone. As she was walking through the house, she started to feel a bit creeped out.

That classic feeling of something not being quite right. The instinctual feeling we get when something is telling us that we're probably in a bad situation and may not even know it yet. Outside, it was getting dark out and there were not many lights on inside the house which contributed to this uneasy feeling. Now a very important detail, the phone in my grandparents' house has a longer cord than most phones at the time. She said that you could walk into other rooms and the cord was long enough that the phone could be brought out of the kitchen into the neighboring rooms which were the living room, the hallway, and my grandparents' bedroom. In the hallway by the kitchen and by my grandparents' bedroom, my grandfather kept a shotgun on the wall, fully loaded and ready to go.

Not the safest thing, I guess, but when you live alone in the woods, I guess you want to be ready to defend yourself the second you know you're in trouble. He had always told my mom and aunt, do not touch that shotgun unless your life is in danger she took this very seriously and never even thought about touching the gun by this point she was in the kitchen she dialed the number to call her coach and informed her about her illness i believe they continued talking for a minute or so because she says that the coach was still on the phone when my mom heard strange noises coming from my grandparents' room. My mother, very frightened, told the coach that she heard something and grabbed the shotgun off the wall, the phone still pressed to her ear. She wasn't sure if she was overreacting and had

imagined something, but she opened the door to my grandparents' room, and what she saw made her drop the phone right on the floor in shock. The window was completely open, and there was a large man with one leg over the windowsill and one leg still outside. What was so awkward about this was that he had basically stopped in the middle of coming in when he realized that he had been caught by her, as if he was not expecting someone to be home, or that he simply did not expect her to have heard him coming in. They just stared at each other for another good five seconds, him just halfway in the room and her just standing there in the doorway, phone on the floor with my mom's coach still in the line asking if she was okay, shotgun in hand, staring at each other, both almost unsure what to do.

My mom, terribly frightened, finally mustered up the will to speak first. In a very shy and afraid voice, she managed to say, I have a gun. Turn around or I'll leave or I'll shoot. The man just stood there. She said it was as if though he was wondering whether she was bluffing or not. Finally, after what seemed like hours of just staring, he suddenly swung his other leg in very fast and turned quickly like he was about to charge her. My mother, terrified with her hand shaking, fired the shotgun and hit him in the shoulder. The impact was so strong that it knocked her back on the floor and sent the man directly out the window that he had come in.

Blood was everywhere around the window, and she picked the phone back up, now sobbing, telling her coach to call the police to her house. When she looked back, she saw the man running, clutching his shoulder, bleeding all over their yard, running back to the woods behind their property. Keep in mind that he had just been shot in the shoulder with a shotgun. It's not like it was a handgun or something. This dude had basically just immediately gotten up like it was nothing and started hauling it off into the woods. I don't know the exact order of what happened next, but the police eventually did get there. My grandparents hurried home sometime shortly after, and the police were still there. I think the most weird part about this story is that there was a trail of blood that the guy had

left as he was fleeing the property, which went out into the woods. The police investigated and found that it continued for some distance into the forest and eventually stopped. There was no body or anything, like the blood just stopped, and they never caught up with the guy. I think it's bizarre because she had shot him in the upper torso with a shotgun, and around the window in the room looked like the scene of a horror movie. There was so much blood. How he got away apparently alive and so quickly without the cops catching up to him is very odd. To be continued... because after sending every story I wrote to all the big names and a few lesser known names, I got no response. No thanks for sending, no your story sucks, nothing. Now I won't mention who they

are, but most of you should know who I'm talking about. Although one big name did read a short story of mine, which I'm very thankful for, and it wasn't my best. And this went on for a while. After months of frustration, I finally realized that it wasn't my best. And this went on for a while. After months of frustration, I finally realized that it wasn't going to happen. So I decided to narrate my own stories, create a YouTube channel, pick a name and then post them myself. How hard could it be? And so I did. My stories were good. At least I thought so. And to my surprise, a few people actually liked them and after a while asked if I would narrate their stories. Wow, really? Okay, I thought. They would send them to me via email, which I gave them and I would narrate their stories. And that started the ball rolling.

I was talking to a co-worker one day about narrating stories for fun and they suggested that I check out an app called Reddit and search short scary stories and no sleep. They said they posted a few stories on there and thought that it would be perfect for me so I did. I created an account and started my search and there I found all kinds of amazing stories. I contacted some authors through comments and personal messages asking permission to read their stories. Most were cool with it, and although I did get a few rejections, I just kept on asking. And always ask permission, by the way. Things were going great.

I was narrating amazing stories, and people were liking them, and I even earned enough karma on Reddit to start my own community. I decided to use it for people to send stories to, and people actually did. All the while, I still searched other communities for stories to read. That was, until I found that story. I should have known by their username that it wasn't a good idea. I'm not going to mention the name of it because it still sends chills up my spine just thinking about it, and I'm shaking as I write this, believe it or not. It was around 1am, insomnia set in, and I was sitting at my dining room table searching Reddit. When I found that story, it blew me away. It had it all. Drama,

suspense, emotion, everything. And I contacted the author through personal messaging asking permission, except for some reason I signed in using my real name, not my stage name. Big mistake. I realized what I did, but it was too late, I had already sent it. Anyway, mere seconds went by and I actually received a reply. Yes, I've been waiting for this, they said. Thinking they'd been waiting for someone to read one of their stories, just like I was, I replied, thank you, and planned to go on with my night. Until I received my own personal message from the author. Hi, my name's Susan, wanna talk? I figured, what the hell, I'm not doing anything else, what could it hurt? So I sent

back, sure. After about a 30 minute conversation, I found out that 1. The author was female, 2. We both like Stephen King, 3. We both like horror movies, and 4. We both lived in the United States, only a few states away from each other. I started getting tired and I let her know and we ended the conversation, both saying goodnight. I was lying in bed, almost asleep, when I got a message from her saying, I'm glad to have someone like you to talk to. I miss that. I shrugged it off and went to sleep. A couple of days went by and I came home from work and found a note on my door. It said,

Hi, sorry I missed you. Love, Susan. What? Love? I only talked to her for like half an hour. How'd she get my address? What did I just get myself into? I took the note off the door and quickly went inside, locking the door and calling the police. I told them the story, and they said that there was nothing they could do until an actual crime was committed. Wow, very reassuring.

I hung up from them and tried to do my normal routine. Make coffee, get changed, drink coffee, and so on and so forth. I couldn't get that note out of my head. The doorbell rang. I froze and slowly walked to the window to see who it was. It was a woman. She was about five and a half feet tall, tattered, dirty clothes, long, stringy brown hair.

It looked like she hadn't bathed in a month. And I immediately knew it was Susan. I had to end this quick, right now, before it turned ugly, and ugly it turned. I opened the door and said, look Susan, I don't know what you think's going on, but I just wanted to read your story. That's it. I'm sorry if you thought there was something more, but there's not. Just go home. I shut the door and walked back into the house. She screamed like a wild woman. She started pounding on the door, screaming, I love you. I love you. I immediately ran to the phone to call 911. A rock or brick

or something came crashing through the front window. I turned and saw that crazy woman climbing into my house, screaming, read my story, read my story. The shards of glass from the broken window cutting her as she climbed in, blood on the window and the floor. The dispatcher said 911 what's your emergency, and I barely had time to say anything, before she charged, slamming into me, knocking me over the desk and falling to the floor herself. She was kicking and screaming like a lunatic. I got up, phone still in hand and smashed it hard against her temple as she was getting up. See, I don't hit women, but this woman deserved it. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and the screaming stopped and she fell to the floor unconscious. I heard sirens outside,

I guess the 911 operator heard it all. The cops came, took my statement, and they made me stay outside while the paramedics tended to Susan, if that even was her real name. The cops put her in cuffs and the paramedics took her to the ambulance. On her way out, she looked at me, laughing. They put her inside and left. The cops finished up and did the same. I was left with a messed up door, a broken window, blood all over the place, a broken desk, and a broken phone. All over one story. And I was done. I moved out that night. I left all my stuff behind. I slept in my car till payday, then rented a room off a co-worker, and I never narrated another story again. So, if any of my subscribers are reading this and wondered whatever happened to me, now you know. This is why I stopped narrating stories on YouTube. This story is not about a ghost or an encounter with a creepy stranger.

It's not even about a near-death experience or something like that. As a matter of fact, I was never in any danger during the event I'm about to tell you. Nonetheless, it's a disturbing memory that I will carry with me until the day I die. I grew up in a small city, the kind of place that you could barely call a town if it wasn't for the sheer number of people living there. Downtown was only a couple of blocks long and in the middle of it was one of the biggest buildings in the area. It was the local movie theater, named after the city. I remember going there when I was very young, about 7 years old and watching the first Pokemon movie. It was probably nothing compared to the theaters that we have nowadays, but back then it was huge for me and I loved it. So when a few years later

I heard the cinema was going out of business, I felt really sad about it. The building was sold to a religious group that used it for their services. You know the type, loud music, big crowds with their arms in the air singing prayers, some having seizures on the stage while the pastor yells through a mic. Every time I walked past the old cinema I would see the announcements of the congregation where the movie posters would have been, and if they were in session you could hear them singing from the other side of the street. This group owned the cinema for nearly a decade until the local government brought back the building in order to restore it as a historic landmark of the city. When this happened, I was studying construction with the intent to follow architecture or civil engineering at college, and my class was

very lucky to be involved with the cinema's restoration project because two of our teachers were architects working on it. I will always remember the day that we went to visit the old cinema. Our class was small, only a handful of students, but we were all around the same age, so we all shared childhood memories of when the cinema was operational. We ran through the corridors of the auditorium, sat in the chairs just like we did when we were little kids, and began stopping on the wooden floor with our feet, filling the entire room with the echoes on the wooden floor with our feet, filling the entire room with the echoes of our drumming and our laughter, a little ritual of sorts everyone used

to do right before the beginning of the movie. Once nostalgia time was over, we went back to the purpose of the trip and began to survey the building. We were very excited because there was a unique opportunity to go into the places that we would have never been allowed to otherwise, so we made sure to check every last corner, every single room, no matter how far and no matter how obscure. The first one that we found was below the stage. On one of the corners there was a little door, not very visible, probably because it was meant for maintenance staff only. Behind it we found a long room filled with rusty boilers and part of the old heating system that was no longer in use. The place was a little creepy,

with all those old tanks and pipes crowding the narrow space, but what we found past them was what really started to freak us out. This room was small, very small. It was, after all, basically just leftover space behind the boilers, yet it contrasted so much with the rest of the area around it, it may as well have been from a different place altogether. The walls were painted a light color, white I think, but I don't remember it very well because what really got my attention were the drawings inside them. There were rainbows, a smiling sun, trees and flowers, and happy little people with smiles on their faces, with dotted eyes. It was very clearly a daycare. The whole class and teacher

gathered to see the discovery and we were all very confused about the strange placing of this room. Okay, we could understand the need for a place to keep the kids that were too little to be amongst the crowd during prayers or maybe the ones of the people who work there, but the place was just odd. The stage was probably one of the loudest places in the auditorium during the services and this was right below it, so there was no way that it could be a quiet place for the children. We left the boiler room and continued our tour through the theater, a little puzzled about our finding, but not giving it too much thought. Outside of the auditorium, there were the bathrooms, both in terrible condition, the ticket sales booth, and a huge set of stairs that led to a mezzanine in the auditorium. Half of the seats that were totally ruined due to a water leak in the roof and I curse these people for not taking proper care of the building. With that part done all that was left was the

projection room on the third floor. Behind the tickets booth there was a door that led to a spiral stair. I don't remember how tall it actually was but it must have been over 10 meters of metallic steps without a single resting spot. I wasn't exactly an athlete but I could walk several kilometers with no problem and rode on a bike to and from school every single day. Yet by the time I reached the top of the stairs

I was exhausted and I wasn't the only one. All of my classmates complained about how hard it was to walk up there. After a short break to catch our breath, we moved on to explore the third floor. It was roughly a narrow passageway with a couple of divisions to form different rooms, but it was more than enough for what it was made for. The first room from the stairs was a storage deposit, probably where they kept the movies and other equipment, and except for some trash, it was mostly empty. The second room was the one that we were all excited to see, the projector room.

The old machine was so big that it was still there, and there were even some pieces scattered around. It was quite a piece of history, and we were all very thrilled to check it out, so no one really bothered to move on to the very last room until we were about to leave. And there, we saw it again. There was a train in this one instead of a rainbow. Something was written on it in big colorful letters. Something about Christ, I can't remember it well. The drawings were a bit old and the paint slightly peeled from the walls, but the colors were just as cheerful as you would expect for a place where children play.

My heart sank to my stomach as I came to the realization of what that place really was, the one behind the boilers probably serving the same purpose. I took notice of how isolated that room was, literally the furthest away you could possibly get from everyone else. I thought about the three floors of stairs and imagined what it would be like to have a child walk all the way up, only to end up in that room, the room with the colorful train in the wall. My classmates and I exchanged horrified expressions as I knew that they were thinking the same thing. We never visited the theater again, even though we continued with the restoration project for several months and we never talked about those two rooms. Cases of exploitation of children in the church are well known by everyone, to the point that a predatory priest is practically a cliché. But this is the kind

of thing that you think happens in some place far away, in another city, even in another country. You never imagine it can happen in the very town you live in, the place where you grew up, in the very same building where you once watched a Pokemon movie when you were seven years old. To be continued... Check out True Crime Obsessed, where we recap the true crime documentaries everyone's talking about. We've been one of the top true crime podcasts for almost nine years. And we have over 400 episodes for you to check out right now. We cover the cases everyone is talking about, and we also highlight the cases that have been underreported, overlooked, or forgotten. With over 30,000 five-star reviews on Apple Podcasts, if you've never checked out True Crime Obsessed, now's the time to give us a try. Find True Crime Obsessed wherever you get your podcasts.

I'm a tall yet extremely skinny guy and I'm 21 years old. I was 20 years old at the time and it was the week before the presidential election in the United States. I felt a lot of anxiety about all this as I live in Manhattan and there are a lot of crazy people in that city who act as if though the entire world is going to end over one simple thing. So feeling exhausted from both that and my university, I decided to visit my friends in Moscow. You see, I'm half Russian and I have an apartment in the city center of Moscow. I had never been in Russia while it snowed and luckily during this time it was snowing. The city looked beautiful and the vibe I had from the city was

perfect. I felt so calm, safe, and the whole world around me just seemed quiet. Unfortunately, I had severe jet lag and fell asleep at around 5pm Moscow time that day. My friend went home to get ready for her classes the next day and I woke up at around 3am and I could not fall back asleep. So, I decided to go outside and take a walk around my area while it calmly snowed. I walked around the dead empty city in my district and took in all of the beautiful architecture and snow falling down heavily I don't remember how long I was walking but I crossed a bridge and entered deeply into a neighborhood that I was not very familiar with I thought it would be okay as I was in my district and sort of remembered the way back home I eventually came up to this ginormous entrance of a block unit with a beautiful gate on

it. The gate was open so I decided to step inside. It looked like a small little compound or something similar to it. If anyone is from Russia they probably know what I'm talking about. Everything was dead quiet and the trees canopied in the square complex. To the right was an extremely tall building with a huge door. I peeked inside and saw a lightly dimmed lobby, typical Russian lobby vibe with a blinking fluorescent light. I held on the door and to my surprise it was unlocked. I entered into the massive building and looked around and I saw many stairs wrapping around in a square leading up, a small typical Russian elevator and to the right of the stairwell stairs that led down. The door at the bottom of the stairs was open.

I absolutely do not know what came over me, as I'm not one to adventure alone, but as I stated earlier, everything just felt so beautiful. The quiet vibe of snow-covered Russia had me feeling so peaceful, and I decided to just tiptoe on down into the basement to take a closer look. I walked into the room with the open door and threw on my flashlight on my phone. I saw an extremely long tunnel, and I couldn't see the end of it. I felt threatened by it and got extremely uncomfortable, and I decided it was probably best for me to leave.

When I turned around, the only light that was entering the tunnel was from outside the doorway. I saw standing in the door, a black silhouette. I quickly understood it was the outline of a person who was at least 5 inches taller than me, so I would say that they were probably 6 foot 5. He was massive and my stomach dropped so hard with my heart beginning to beat super quickly. He started to speak to me in Russian but as my Russian isn't fluent I didn't understand everything he said. I'm sorry I don't speak Russian. I said to him in some broken Russian and he says back, you speak English? And he said that to me in English, and I told him I did, and he asked me if I knew where I was.

No, I told him, as my mind started to fill up with a lot of different scenarios, one of which was me having to run down this tunnel and getting lost to avoid him if he decides to chase me. These tunnels used to be for Red Army soldiers to move from one place to another during the war, he explained to me. This whole building used to be a bunker for Red Army soldiers. I said, ah, to show some interest and began to move towards the left while facing him in attempts to get him to move out of the doorway. This whole place is now apartments. I have one on the top floor. You should come see it, he said to me. It's quite late and I think I should be going, I said. However, he grabbed my small wrist with a lot of strength and led me towards the stairs to go to the main floor of the lobby.

I have a view that you'll love. He called the small elevator and if any of you have ever been to Russia, you know exactly what type of elevator it is. The type that can barely fit two people. He began telling me about how he just got back from Chicago and that his husband loved Chicago as well. And this started to have me panicking as I thought to myself that there would be another man up to where he was bringing me and I would have two people overpowering me. Once we get to his room, I look at this massive studio apartment that he had. He had only candles to light the room with a lot of tapestries dividing it up, with both the candle and moonlight shining through it to create

a super eerie vibe. I looked out his window as he instructed me and I have to admit, the view was amazing. I got a panoramic view of the city and then I started scoping around looking for an opportunity to get out of there. Where's your husband? I asked and he looked at me and laughed. Oh, he's dead. He then picked me up, and I asked him what he was doing. He brought me into another room and began to touch me inappropriately. He ran his hand down my back and took my phone from my back pocket. I didn't realize that he did this, as I was just in horror as this man licked me and said explicit things in Russian. I tried to pull away but it made him squeeze and corner me even harder.

After about 10 minutes of this he told me to wait a moment. He went into his bathroom and in this moment I immediately sprinted over to the door. There were no lights so I went to pull off my phone for a flashlight only to my horror the phone was missing from my back pocket. I almost nearly had a heart attack as I realized that I would have to go back into that bedroom to get my phone. I darted back into the room and saw my phone lying on a couch that he had next to his bed. I grabbed it and made a run for the door. I unlocked two locks on one door and when I opened that one,

there was an outer door and I managed to get it open. As I ran out, the adrenaline was so high in me and I ignored the elevator and went straight for the stairs. I ran around in circles down it for what seemed like forever until I finally reached the bottom. I practically leaped down a few steps to get out of the lobby and to the main door that I had entered from It wouldn't open as I pushed as hard as I could on it I then began to start sobbing to myself and cursing The thoughts of me having to go back into that tunnel to hide again from him came over me And I almost began to accept that as a reality at this point

I quickly tried to pull myself together And noticed the typical button you should press to disable the magnet that holds the doors locked. I pressed it, heard the monotone beep that follows and fell out of the door and into the snow. I never understood why characters could not pull themselves together when running in horror movies, always falling on themselves. But in that moment, I did the same, and I sort of understood it now. I treaded through the thigh-high snow and to the main road by exiting the complex. I sprinted, ignoring my lungs screaming for air down the main road, only slowing down once I

reached a bridge that led me to my street. Once I got inside, I sat in my bed for two hours, nearly shaking, before I even bothered to tell anyone else about it. This is a true story that happened during an evening winter walk on Cape Cod in Massachusetts. This happened several years back when I was 13, and this was a time when I was growing up in New York. We actually had a summer house on Cape Cod and spent every other weekend there, if we could. Cape Cod is a peninsula off the east coast of Massachusetts. It becomes very busy, even crowded during summertime.

But during the winter season, it becomes empty. The majority of the houses in our area are owned as summer houses, so during winter, the houses are still there, but the people are not. In contrast to New York, there are only street lamps on the single main road in this town, and the main road goes from the town center to the beach. Aside from this road, all the others are dark and very black at night. Also, Cape Cod extends out into the Atlantic from the mainland, forming a bay, Cape Cod Bay. Not only can one watch the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean, but can watch the sunset over Cape Cod Bay on any given clear day.

Another effect of being surrounded by ocean is that there are very little man-made light at night. The stars are so clear that the Milky Way is clearly visible, spanning across the sky on clear nights. This story happened during the vacation period between Christmas and the New Year. The Christmas celebration was finished, there was plenty of leftover turkey and pumpkin pie, and we got a bit of cabin fever with all the Christmas food and family on one evening. My older sister, who's seven years older than I, 20 at the time, came up with an idea to take a walk to the harbor, which is about a 20-minute walk from our house. The harbor can be fun because we can walk on the docks and walk among the boats.

While I was a bit creeped out to walk around a deserted beach town on a cold winter night, I also thought that it would be fun to get out of the house and maybe even be exciting. We headed out across the street from our classic Cape Cod cottage. It's a field with a forest at the other end. At night time, I would also have a little fear that there might be some psycho watching from the tall grass. Perhaps he would have an axe. But while I kept my nerves wary, I knew it was my imagination. But still, icy wind blowing on tall grass is a perfect setting for some horror movies.

Add to this a moonless sky with a million sparkling stars in the Milky Way above, and the horror setting is at Stephen King level. We walked out to the main road, went a bit down the road, and then turned to walk down a side street that leads to the street that dips downhill toward the harbor. This side street runs along the backside of a long hotel. It's more like a two-level motel painted yellow that has a pool. It's well situated in town so it can be full of life during the summer. On this December evening, the hotel was closed for the season. Completely dark and several windows were covered with plywood for protection.

My sister mentioned that a hotel that spans an entire block but is partially boarded reminds her of a horror movie, like one of those slasher films where the characters make all the wrong decisions and walk into the worst of dark places, only to find their worst nightmare come true. At the end of the street with the hotel, we continue to the left, which is a long road downhill through the woods to the harbor. This isn't a pure forest because there are houses set back from the road with an occasional driveway.

Many of the driveways have reflectors on a rock, a fence, or just standing on a metal stick. These reflectors reflect back the headlights from cars. I mention this because we couldn't see any of them or anything. It was pitch black in the wooded area and the road seemed to continue into the darkness. And come to think of it, we hadn't seen a single car or a single person or any sort of life since we left our house and my nerves were on edge. I was only 13 at the time and although my nerves were screaming, I tried to stay calm because I wanted to seem tough to my sister. The woods alongside the road were particularly nerve-wracking. The trees came right up to the asphalt on each side of the road,

providing many opportunities to hide someone or something. The houses beyond the woods were dark because vacationers rarely came here in the winter, as I said, and I started to notice that my sister was also starting to lose her nerves and that's when I felt it. I felt a flush of energy move up the back of my neck, making it feel like the hairs were standing on end. This is a feeling that I get when I feel like I'm being watched. It's hard to describe this feeling but I still experience it today, sometimes when someone is looking at me from behind. It's either some kind of sixth sense or it's just my imagination working with some intuition. We were now midway into the wooded area, down the hill

towards the harbor. I was starting to lose my composure and was just about to stop pretending not to be freaking out and tell my sister let's go back when she suggested it. She says, it's late, maybe we don't have to go all the way to the harbor. I replied, Yeah, plus it's kind of creepy and dark down there. The back of my neck was shivering and I felt my body shudder as it wrestled between acting relaxed and flipping the switch to fight or flight mode. My sister then says, Yeah, very creepy.

Come on, let's go back to the house. We can see the harbor tomorrow. We turned around and she grabbed my hand and we started walking quickly back up the hill. I remember that she held my hand so tight that it actually hurt. My sister never holds my hand and I can't think of another time that she's done this. And this is where the story takes a deep dive down the rabbit hole. As we got towards the end of the wooded area, my sister screams out, I've got a knife and I'm not afraid to use it. She didn't lose any of the rhythm in her fast walk while saying this.

We crossed a street now and headed on to the street with the backside of the closed two-level motel. My sister continued speedwalking and looked back. She let out a little panicked noise and looked back again, and then she commanded me, Don't look back. I was utterly freaking out at this point. Aside from the eerie vibe of the dark, empty streets and my own inner panic, I had not actually seen anything out of the ordinary, with the exception of my sister's completely insane behavior. And then she says,

when I say run, you run, okay? Okay. We were almost in the main road, a block from our street, and she screams run, and we booked it. She let go of my hand and we both broke into the fastest sprint we could manage. I could hear our footsteps banging on the asphalt and I could also hear several other steps banging behind us in the distance. We cut around the grassy area to take a shortcut toward our street and ran through the front yards of our neighbor's house to make a beeline for the front door of our home and we made it. We both ran in and locked the storm door, which is mostly glass. I was panicking, but I wasn't sure if there was anything or if we were just going crazy. It was a strange transition from outside, which was terrifying,

to the inside, a warm, lit house, which felt safe. I was questioning what had happened in my mind mind and I could sense that my sister was also questioning herself whether there was even a threat or if we both had just lost our minds collectively. I asked my sister what she saw and she said that there was a man standing at the edge of one of the driveways. We had walked right by him on the way back and she said that when we were behind the hotel, he crossed the street and was seemingly following us. She said he was looking right at us and although we were walking very fast, he seemed to be gaining on us. She explained that it didn't make sense that a man would be standing out there in that dark wooded area. Honestly, I don't understand really what happened that night, and I'm not sure how much of what my sister said was true or if she was just seeing things or not. But one thing is for sure, I realize that I lived one house away from a child predator, and for the sake of this story, I'll just call him Mr. Stan.

Our old neighborhood started at the top of a hill and went down to a small lake, where the road turned right and branched off into a cul-de-sac and another residential road. Mr. Stan's house was at the top of the hill and ours was in the middle. Mr. Stan lived in the neighborhood long before we moved in. It's hard for me to remember any vivid details about him as I was very young at the time, but what I do remember is that every time he saw us, his face would scrunch up as if he smelled something terrible. There was one house between his place and ours and something that I'm very grateful for. I don't know what

life would have been like if we had him living right next to us. Right from when we were little, my parents were very strict about walking past Mr. Stan's house. They told us that Mr. Stan was sick in the head and if he ever asked us to come into his home, we were never, ever allowed to do so by ourselves. For years, no one told us exactly why Mr. Stan was bad, but we didn't need details, we just knew to avoid him. The look he gave us whenever he was working on his car or planting flowers in his garden was enough. When my sister and I would walk up the hill to school,

we would cross the street when we got to his place, just to be safe. Like I said, I don't remember very much about Mr. Stan, and his twisted story begins long before I was even born. For this, I turned to my mom to fill in the details. Mom said that before we'd ever moved into the cul-de-sac around the late 70s and early 80s, Mr. Stan had already had the reputation of being a heavy drinker. He would get drunk and go over to the house of the family right across the street from us to do terrible things to the daughter while she was babysitting. The daughter tried to tell her mother about it, but since she was a rebellious child,

her mother didn't believe her. Her family and Mr. Stan's family were actually good friends. Mr. Stan worked as a corrections officer, and soon accusations surfaced that Mr. Stan and another officer regularly touched their co-workers' kids. Mr. Stan was able to avoid conviction by ratting out the other officer but in the process he lost his job. As far as I know, he never really worked after that. Mr. Stan had two daughters of his own and while the older one claimed that she was predatorized and suffered from mental problems as a result, the younger one said that she was

never mistreated in any way and grew up to be a very positive person. Mr. Stan's wife stood by her husband and claimed that he was innocent throughout the whole ordeal. Ironically, the older daughter's emotional instability resulted in her children going to live with grandpa. More on that in a moment. When my family moved into our house in the cul-de-sac, our next door neighbor, a kind but nosy old man, told my dad to keep my sister and I away from Mr. Stan. He told my parents the gossip and Mr. Stan's history with children which understandably horrified them both. As a result, my mom and dad were wary of him from the start.

Mr. Stan was cordial enough. He would wave hello to my family and all that neighborly stuff. According to mom, he even offered to babysit my little sister and I to which my parents politely but emphatically declined. Then sometime around 2002, my dad was going to work when he came across a neighborhood kid, Lana, on her way up the street. My dad's a chatty person and so he asked Lana what she was up to. Lana told him that she was going to Mr. Stan's house to give him a back rub, quote unquote. Dad knew that something was off, so he told Lana's parents. And to his surprise, they weren't alarmed at all and said that that sort of thing happened all the time. According to mom, when Lana was older, dad asked her if Mr. Stan ever acted inappropriately

toward her during those visits and her answer was definitely. When my sister was in kindergarten and I was in grade three, Mr. Stan's grandkids came to live with him and his wife for reasons I mentioned earlier. My parents couldn't believe that this was allowed by anyone especially considering the allegations and neighborhood gossip around Mr. Stan. His granddaughter was in the same kindergarten class as my sister and his grandson was about my age. Mom told me that it was so disturbing to see the sweet little granddaughter at school every day and know what was probably going on behind closed doors. My parents have always had strong morals, particularly my dad. They would often talk about what they should do.

They wanted to report Mr. Stan to the authorities before any harm could come to his grandchildren. Mom and Dad knew that if they reported Mr. Stan, they would be putting themselves at risk, and the rest of the neighborhood was no help. Mom said it was as if they were all hiding under rocks and turning a blind eye to what was happening. In the end, my parents' strong morality won out and they decided, with the risk of being exposed as whistleblowers, to report Mr. Stan to the principal at my elementary school. The principal, in turn, called the ministry who sent people to Mr. Stan's house for home visits and investigations, as they put it. In the end, it was decided that the grandchildren would be removed from Mr. Stan's home. Mom isn't sure how it happened, but somehow it was leaked that my parents were the ones who

reported Mr. Stan as being who he was, and she thinks Lana's family may have had a hand in it. And as mom put it, that's when the real fun began. Mr. Stan was no longer friendly toward my family. No more waves, no more chit-chat. Instead, he would target my mom with his car if she was walking down the road alone or scream obscenities at my dad as he went to work. A few times he crossed the center line to scare us if we passed each other while driving. He told my dad that he ruined his life and that he was a horrible person. Thinking about that now really boils my blood because my dad is one of the

kindest and most considerate men I know. Mom was miserable and wanted to move, but dad, as unshakable as he is, said he wasn't in a hurry. Mom told me it took three years of house hunting before she finally convinced dad that it was time to go. Only after all of this, when we had been living in our beautiful new home out in the country, did I finally start to uncover the details of the story, but sadly it doesn't end there. After we moved out of the cul-de-sac, Lana and other girls who were now grown up came forward to report Mr. Stan and what he had done. He was hauled into court for a second time, and this time there was no one that he could rat on to save himself. The testimony against him was building up. My parents followed the trial in the newspaper. They wanted to see him put away for all

of the terrible things he'd done. I have no memory of these proceedings, of course, and nobody wanted to explain it to me. I don't blame them. Mr. Stan was not only a former corrections officer, but now he was also convicted. He knew that he would not last long if he went to prison. So, on a quiet morning one week before his sentencing, Mr. Stan took a hunting rifle and shot himself. The folks who moved into Lana's house after her family left were walking their kids to school when they heard the shot. Mom tells me the image of that scene still haunts her to this day.

I think she imagines what it would have been like if it were her walking my sister and I to school in place of that other family, or maybe she was disturbed to learn that Mr. Stan had a gun. I know it sounds harsh, but I'm glad he's gone. He can never hurt another child again. My memories of this whole ordeal are far less interesting than the actual event, but one thing I do remember very clearly is being afraid of Mr. Stan's house. I knew it was dangerous. In my memory, it was painted black with white stucco. The car park and stairs to the front door were all underneath the wood roof, which cast the entire front of the house into shadow. To me, it was a monster house, though I didn't

know why. My sister and I only ever went to Mr. Stan's front door once. It was Halloween and my parents decided it was okay for us to trick or treat at his house since they would be standing at the bottom of the stairs. I was actually very reluctant to go and my parents had to encourage me that it was okay. Mr. Stan's house was the only one that didn't need Halloween decorations to be scary. So my sister and I cautiously climbed the stairs and rang the doorbell. Mr. Stan's wife opened the door. She was kind to us and gave us candy and I remember being surprised that Mr. Stan's wife was so nice. But what I remember most was that I wanted to see inside the forbidden home.

For some reason, this has still stuck with me. I looked behind Mrs. Stan and there was Mr. Stan and a wife beater top, beer belly and all, sitting in an armchair watching TV. It was dim in the living room except for a lamp and the glow of the TV and Mr. Stan didn't look at us. For years I wondered if that was what bad men look like. When I think about this story now, 11 years later, it really hits me how dark my neighborhood was under the surface. It's quite disturbing to me because my childhood was actually quite happy. I was too young to notice anything wrong and I couldn't sense the tension that my parents lived with every day. I didn't know how much potential danger my sister and I were in.

All I knew was that it was a beautiful day to play with my marbles and go to the lake. But now that I think of it, Mr. Stan may have been the reason that my parents bought a copy of You Can Say No, a picture book that teaches children about safety around bad people. I think my parents handled the situation very well and I'm so thankful that they were attentive and brave during the whole thing. The story could have gone very differently, and when I think about our house on the old cul-de-sac, it's usually the happy memories I think of first. Mom tells me that despite all the trouble they went through, neither she or dad regret the decisions they made, and she left me with one last ominous message. They say that every neighborhood has a predator living there. Most of the time, we just don't know it. To be continued... We cover the cases everyone is talking about, and we also highlight the cases that have been underreported, overlooked, or forgotten.

With over 30,000 five-star reviews on Apple Podcasts, if you've never checked out True Crime Obsessed, now's the time to give us a try. Find True Crime Obsessed wherever you get your podcasts. I will admit first off that I have heard a lot of these deep web and dark web stories and have always called BS. However, a close friend of mine swore that she had been to this place and that she had seen some really messed up things. Some she would talk about and others she refused. She said some of the things that she had seen would haunt her for the rest of her life. I should just let it go at that, but I wanted to believe that she was making it all up and that there was no such place, but I was the one that was wrong. You know the drill by now. I downloaded Tor, Onion, and found the hidden wiki. I had been warned about some of the links and how they can trick you into some really crazy and horrible things.

I clicked a few, and they were mostly meetups or escort requests, drug deals, things like that. And needless to say, I was really starting to think that I was right and that the deep web was just an easy way to make shady deals that couldn't be traced. It's lame, tame, and a little boring. I looked around for something remotely interesting until I found the link, The Night Watchman. Okay, this could be interesting. I was thinking that it might be some guy telling creepy stories

or walking around a sleepy town at night or something. What greeted me was a flat, black page with three videos blown up to cover the space sitting side by side in a line. They were paused and on each of them was a picture of different people. The first one had a family of four, mom, dad, and two little girls. The second was a couple with the female being obviously pregnant. The third was just one woman and her dog, a cute black lab with a white streak over his left eye. Before I could study them for too long, a voice came through. It was male, but slightly distorted so I couldn't really hear what he actually sounded like,

but here's what it said. Good evening. Tonight the night watchmen have brought you three unique households. Each of them live different lives, believe different things, have different future plans. He stopped here and cleared his throat, and for this next part, it sounded like he was smiling. Watch each video and then choose one. I really didn't understand the point of this task, but honestly, my interest was piqued. I was curious where this was going. I clicked the first video.

There wasn't much to it. It showed the family in their home, skipping through moments of them watching TV, playing in the backyard, having supper, the parents putting the kids to bed and then retiring to their own bed to make love. It cut off there, thank god. I was starting to feel like a weird creep. I was seeing a part of people's lives that were meant for only them. I reluctantly clicked the next video,

and I was transported into the home of a young couple getting ready to start a family. I skipped through them in the baby's room hugging and generally looking excited They ate salads at the kitchen table Went through mail Looked through baby books and magazines Watched a show on TV and then went to bed Snuggling up together This one was so sweet that I couldn't help but smile at what I'd seen However, I was still a voyeur in their little personal moments

I had gone through the others I figured it was only right to watch the last one. This one was of a single woman living with just her dog. She was a bit of a slob, she had dishes piled up, laundry on a love seat in the living room, and trash that was overflowing. The other two had been pretty tidy, the family having some toys and laundry lying around, the couple with a very clean house. I wondered if there was a point to that since it did show these aspects in the videos. Anyway, the woman seemed lonely.

She watched a lot of TV, ate a half gallon of ice cream, checked her cell phone every few moments, obviously hoping for a call or text, played fetch with her dog, fed him and then went to bed, taking her phone with her. She began to pleasure herself and I began to feel incredibly awkward. Thankfully this one ended there as well. I waited to see what was next. The videos reset and went back to the stills of each one again. The voice came back over and said,

Now that you have seen, which will you choose? I sat there and watched, praying that someone else was here watching this too and would choose, but nothing happened for a few minutes. The videos disappeared and another three videos began playing simultaneously and these turned my stomach. There were three tall men. I assumed that they were men by what character I could catch. They each wore the same clothing, a black shirt, pants, boots, and long black trench coat that dangled around their ankles. To top it all, they each wore a large wide brim black hat. Have you decided? Which one will you choose? The voice chimed in over the obviously live feed. Death comes on swift wings for our ill-fated friends. You must choose one. That's how the

game goes. He thought this was a game and I was horrified. Was I really supposed to choose who died here and who survived? It was ridiculous and I went to close the page. Calmly, the voice began again. Before you close this down, you should know that if you do not choose one of the three shown here, your family will be next. I was startled by his declaration, but figured that he was just trying to scare me. He was doing a very good job, truthfully. Anna, he said, and my heart skipped a beat. He said my name, and now I was officially terrified, and I just wanted this to stop. Anna. Dear sweet Anna. I know it's a difficult choice, but it must be made. Please, if you will, direct the night watchmen to their chore.

The original videos came back up and I knew that it meant that it was time for me to pick someone to die. Maybe it's just a horrible joke that some hacker and his friends like that play on unsuspecting deep web surfers, I stated out loud. It was more to make me feel better than anything, even though my heart was still pounding. I looked at the people again. There was a family there, children. I couldn't choose them. Then there was the expecting couple. I couldn't do this, it was too much. Choose. The normally calm voice barked at me. Choose now. I jumped and looked at the last one. It was the lonely woman with a dog for a companion. She had the least to lose and she was alone without kids or a husband.

It wasn't okay, but I quickly clicked her video. Very well. So shall it be. The voice was calm and smooth once again. The videos of the night watchman came back up. Night watchman, a choice has been made. You may attend to your work. I watched in horror as two of the watchmen began walking toward the houses in front of them,

and the third one walked away from a house. I was confused. I chose the lonely woman, but her watchman was walking away, and he disappeared into the night and the feed cut off. The other two videos grew bigger and took up the screen. What's going on? Was all I could say. The two watchmen that it showed each effortlessly broke into the houses.

I was biting my bottom lip so hard that it bled. The feeds walked along with them as they each silently roamed through the houses. One watchman walked into the set-up baby room and looked around gingerly, and then made his way across the hall to the other bedroom. The other watchman walked slowly down the hall, seemingly trying to decide which room to enter, and he chose the children's room. I looked over to the first one.

He stood at the foot of the sleeping couple's bed holding a machete. He walked to one side and began swinging wildly. There were screams so loud and frightened that I felt like I might pass out or throw up. I looked over to the other video reluctantly. The watchman stood in the children's room, right in the center of the pink bunk bed. He also brandished a machete. I screamed as he raised it up and reached over and pulled the computer plug out of the wall. I was terrified, traumatized. What had I just witnessed? What had I just done? My mouth felt dry, my head was spinning out of control, and my heart felt like it might burst from my chest.

After several hours, I decided to check my computer and hope that the nightmare I had witnessed was gone. And there was nothing. Days later, I was checking my email when I stopped and recoiled in horror. There was an email from the Night Watchman. I finally opened it, and I really don't know why. Maybe I was hoping that it would tell me that I had been punked or something. Instead, it was a few large words in an otherwise white background. Jenna thanks you for excluding her from a Night Watchman fate. We thank you for your choices too, and we truly enjoyed our encounter with you.

Come play again anytime. Attached was a picture of the lonely woman walking her dog in the park, still looking down at her phone. I will never, ever, access the deep web again. again this story happened when i was 12 years old i'm a a female and 25, and the story I'm about to tell you, it might not be as scary as most, but for me and my parents, it was. I remember it was a Saturday night at around 9 or 10pm during the summertime. I owned one dog at the time, his name is Benny. My parents decided that night that they feel like going for a walk around the block, walking Benny and asked me whether I wanted to join them. I said no because I wanted to play

PWI on my PC, Perfect World International, and my parents were okay with leaving me alone since the walk wouldn't take longer than 30 minutes tops. As my parents would get dressed to leave the house, I logged into PWI and looked around in my guild and global chat to see if anyone was on. For some reason, no one was, so I decided to join my parents. I get dressed, put Benny on his leash, and we all leave. I'd like to mention that I lived in an apartment building that had ten floors, and we lived on the very first floor. Not sure how to explain, but you have the basement of the building and then the first row of apartments. Basically, you enter the building and you're

already facing the apartments. I lived in the very first one and I remember always hating that because whoever would pass by our door, we would hear them at any time of the day or night. Whoever was lurking at night, we would hear them and it was somewhat eerie to live on floor zero. Anyway, we leave the house, my dad closes the door, and we had three keyholes and a steel bar that would block the door from the inside. The bar covered half of the door. Precautions were my father's obsession, and we exit the building and enjoy our walk. After 15 minutes we realize that the wind has changed from warm summer wind to an incoming storm. My mom makes the call to go back home as Benny already

did all of his duties so we all return. We open the building door, climb the five stairs to our door and attempt to open it and my father does the following. Unlocks the first three locks and then attempts to unlock the metal bar that holds the door locked. At that moment, my father pauses, turns around at us with the most serious face I'd ever seen on him, and whispers us to call the police and ring the neighbor's door. My mom goes to the second apartment, and the neighbor, Ted, comes out asking my father what had happened. My dad whispered to him covering the see-through hole of the door. Someone's in our house.

He or they are holding the door. Please stay here with my family and I'll attempt to open it, but I'll be back. After saying that, I see my father rush all by himself around the building in the dark. I say dark because we didn't have a street light on the side of our apartment facing the block garden. My dad disappears into the darkness. I go outside too, not following him too much but only to hear if he's in trouble. He's my dad, don't judge me. As soon as I get out, I hear him shout, hey you, come back. Who the hell do you think you are? I'm calling the police.

At the same time I hear him shout, I look at, who manages to open the door and enter the house. I go after them and enter my home. It no longer felt like my house though. In just 15 minutes while we were walking, the home invaders made a complete mess of our home. All of our shelves and wardrobes were pulled out and our clothes scattered all over the house. Benny's dry food was all over the floor, indicating that they must have tripped in his bowls, probably not knowing that we owned a dog. But what scared me the most was how organized they were. I say they because after seeing the disaster that was left behind, we knew it was impossible for just one person to hold the door, steal,

and organize what they want to take with them. I say organize because the thieves put in our living room, all packed and ready, what they wanted but couldn't steal. On the couch they placed our laptops, one of our TVs, my father's collection of coins, our phones, chargers, wallets, and even my father's camera. He's a photographer and that week he had to attend a wedding. They didn't have enough time to steal all of that so they just settled with some of my mom's jewelry and some pocket money. After seeing this, in my silly child mind, I rushed to my room to check my piggy bank. I always saved up money from whatever chores that I did. It wasn't much but it was my work and savings at that time and I thought that they stole it too. When I enter my room I see the metal bars covering

my windows are cut open and my window broken. This is how they entered, through my room. My room is the only room facing the side of the building and the one most secluded from views. Needless to say that I never felt safe in my own room in which I had to live for the next ten years of my life until I moved in with my fiancé. The police arrive, they start throwing white dust, I have no idea what it is still, all over our house to find fingerprints I guess, and they take pictures, take our statements, analyze my room and window, and they were unable to catch the home invaders but were able to tell us that this invasion was not the only one in our neighborhood. And during that month, another four houses were broken into, one of them being the home of a cop,

not related with the cops at our home. They told us that the invaders analyzed their victims, learned their schedule, even knew where the children's rooms were as they seemed to be entering the house through the children's windows. All the families affected by them had children. They did not expect us to be back that soon and panicked. Hence, one of them was holding the door with his body so that the others could flee. The person after which my dad was shouting was probably the one holding the door and escaping last through my broken window. I don't know what could have happened if I didn't change my mind and give up on raiding for gears and PWI. I would probably have come face to face with these invaders. I'm happy I didn't, and I hope to God that I never have to meet with them, period. To be continued... If you get 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, and maybe even pick up some Let's Read merch on Spreadshirt. And check out the Let's Read podcast, where you can hear all of these stories in big compilations and save huge on data. Located anywhere you listen to podcasts. Links in the description below. Thanks so much, friends. And I'll see you again soon.

Hey, are you looking for a true crime podcast to binge? We'll see you next time. out right now. We cover the cases everyone is talking about, and we also highlight the cases that have been underreported, overlooked, or forgotten. With over 30,000 five-star reviews on Apple Podcasts, if you've never checked out True Crime Obsessed, now's the time to give us a try. Find True Crime Obsessed wherever you get your podcasts.