The Lets Read Podcast - 270: HE BROKE IN ON CHRISTMAS EVE | 17 True Scary Stories | EP 258

Episode Date: December 17, 2024

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about Christmas, parole officers & the paranormal 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 Betterhelp

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From tires to auto repair, we're always there. TreadExperts.ca There's a phrase they're saying, I guess it's taken from the Bible, but I see it a lot around the holidays. It goes something like this, Peace on earth and goodwill to all men. I've always liked that phrase, and the same way I always liked the idea of winning the lottery or a Sam Adams tall boy that never runs out of beer, no matter how much I drink. Awesome idea, but it's never going to happen. Now don't get me wrong, it sure is a nice thought, but having worked as a homicide detective for almost 15 years, I can tell you first hand that crime doesn't take a break around Christmas.

People will always be people, no matter what day of the year it is, and people cheat each other, rob each other, and kill each other, even on what's supposed to be the most peaceful day of the year. I think during my whole career in homicide, I got called out to a scene on Christmas Day more than 50% of the time. I know the holiday is supposed to be about peace and, like I said, goodwill, but there's also something about that time of the year that brings out the very worst in people. I don't know if it's the alcohol, the cold, or the attempts to manufacture happiness, but for some folks, the cracks really begin to show around the holidays. Then, enough of those cracks and whole structures come crumbling down, sometimes with fatal consequences.

That's what I figured happened with one case that I got back in the early 2000s. Me and my partner rolled up to this house on the north shore. Nice place, four bedrooms, all decorated for the holidays. There was a woman lying in the driveway with three entry wounds around her neck and shoulders. Walking past her and we could see the front door was open. In the hallway, her husband was lying on his back with a single entry wound under his chin and his brains splattered all over the ceiling and floor behind him. Scattered all over the carpeted floor of the home's front rooms, which were so exquisitely decorated they could have been the cover of a Christmas card,

were dozens of sheets of printed paper. We began to carefully collect, photograph, and analyze them, but I think we were maybe only a third of the way through before we figured out what had happened. The pieces of paper depicted screenshots of text message chains, email threads, and other assorted evidence of marital infidelity. The wife was having an affair, the husband found out about it, and he presented all the evidence to her on Christmas morning, all wrapped up in a big red and white bow. I guess she tried to run, but the husband had his piece ready, meaning she barely

made it halfway up the driveway before he shot her to death. Then, once he realized what he'd done, he put the gun to his own chin and pulled the trigger. It seemed like a pretty simple case, triggered by a cheating spouse, but as we went through the motions of putting together our evidence file, we started to notice some frightening inconsistencies. First off, and this tends to be the case with most contemporary homicide investigations, we try to locate the cell phones of the deceased and his victim.

Unless a crime is entirely spontaneous, a perp's phone is usually a treasure trove of evidence. Whether it's googling how to dispose of a dead body, or overtly threatening their eventual victim via text messages, it's always worth checking a person's phone for a malice afterthought. For obvious reasons, we also needed to cooperate the printouts with what was actually on the wife's phone, but it soon became evident that neither the husband nor the wife's cell phone were anywhere to be found. We considered the possibility that the husband had disposed or hidden of the phones in

order to prevent his wife from calling for help, but even after turning the whole house upside down, we couldn't locate either of them. That's when we turned to local cell carriers for helping in triangulating the phones, and if anyone's wondering, this is how that works. Basically, in your area, there will be any number of cell phone towers and whenever your phone is switched on, your phone talks back and forth with whatever tower is closest in order to receive data. These cell phone towers store all the data from these little digital conversations, but your phone doesn't talk to just one at a time. It'll talk to a bunch of them.

This means that law enforcement or whoever wants to find you, can not only pinpoint your rough location, but can use triangulation to determine your location within an accuracy of a few hundred yards. Even if you turn your phone off prior to committing a crime, we can use your last known location, sometimes as a focal point for the coming investigation. And not only do these pings allow us to determine a phone's rough location, but we also know what time it was at any given place prior to being switched off. And this is where we discovered the second inconsistency. We estimated the time of the couple's death to be between 6.30 and 7 in the morning.

We had a neighbor say that they heard what they thought were gunshots around that time, but figured it was simply someone test firing something Santa had brought them. The 3-4 shots they heard weren't followed by any screams or sirens or anything, so they just went back to sleep, adding that this was around 6.45am. In which case, both husband and wife expired by 7am or 7.15 at the latest. But if that was the case, why was the final ping from both their cell phones recorded just prior to 8am? Or to put it in layman's terms, how did two dead people both turn their phones off after their own deaths? As you can imagine, this blew our investigation wide open, since it meant that a third party had to have been present at the scene of the crime.

This happened from time to time. Someone walks in on something they shouldn't have, then is too scared to talk about it for whatever reason. But placing our third party at the scene, right around the same time the two phones stopped talking with the cell towers, that suggested something that was as chilling as it was unusual. Then after this tragedy, someone stepped over their dead bodies, turned off their phones, then absconded with them for reasons unknown. At that point, we were expecting more twists to the tale, but we didn't have to wait long for them. At first, when it came to ballistics analysis, everything seemed to check

out. The gun found in the husband's hand was definitely the same one used to shoot his wife and then himself. There was also powder residue on the guy's chin, as well as on the gun's muzzle, meaning it had been fired point blank at his chin. His fingerprints were on the trigger as well as on the pistol's grip, but two things struck our ballistics experts as suspicious. The fingerprints on the grip were considerably fainter than those on the trigger, meaning there's no doubt that he pulled it, but if he did, it was with an unusually soft hold on the gun's grip. While it's not impossible to fire a gun like that, there's no way that he'd been able to shoot himself in that

fashion without getting any gunshot residue over his shooting hand. And at that point, we officially had a homicide on our hands. It was a tiny, tiny slip-up A detail that might have even gotten by a less professional investigation But it didn't get by us And like I said, it changed absolutely everything regarding our crime scene In a way, choosing Christmas morning to commit a double murder displayed a twisted kind of genius Commit the same murder in an urban apartment building even on Christmas Day I'll find you half a dozen witnesses by the end of the day genius. Commit the same murder in an urban apartment building, even on Christmas day, I'll find you half a dozen witnesses by the end of the day. But kill two people at 6.45 on Christmas morning in the suburbs, and the best we had was a person who heard the shots.

No one was awake to see or hear anything of real significance, and having left behind nothing in the way of forensic evidence, our killer was little more than a ghost. They even used the husband's own gun to really try and throw us off the scent, and although we were smart enough to figure out what we were looking at, we didn't have the luck required to be able to track our perpetrator. Don't get me wrong, we tried our absolute best to single out any suspicious vehicles entering or leaving the area, and we employed at least half a dozen other extensive investigative techniques to try and get an idea of who we were dealing with.

But each time, we came back empty-handed, and the case eventually turned cold. Officially speaking, it's still an open investigation, and from what I've heard, it's been worked over by a couple of other detectives, each hoping to be the one to crack it. But just like ours, their efforts proved fruitless, and each time, it's been tossed back in the rest of the cold cases, waiting for some other ambitious young greenhorn to come along and get lost in it all over again. From experience, contract killers are something homicide detectives rarely encounter. People kill each other for all kinds of reasons, but very rarely do they kill complete strangers for vast sums of untraceable cash. Frankly, I found myself more disturbed by those who killed relatives or spouses to collect insurance money. I can almost

understand being able to pull the trigger on a stranger, but my kid or my wife? Not for all the money in the world. That being said, seeing evidence of something that verges on an urban legend, it was chilling. Very chilling. It marked the one and only time I ever saw a sophisticated cover-up,

one that worked just enough to have us looking in the wrong place, for just long enough for a killer to get away scot-free. It makes me wonder just how many other cases are the same way. Someone goes missing, or passes suddenly, while they're alone, or at risk, or potentially maybe taking their own life. How many cases are labeled a tragic accident when in reality, they're anything but? Being an addict during the holidays can be a surreal experience, and that's putting it lightly. My first Christmas as a junkie was actually pretty awesome if you can believe it.

I was still a weekend warrior back then, limiting my doses to stave off physical addiction, and whenever I felt myself getting a little too into it, I'd wean myself off with Suboxone and then start all over again. But then as time went by, the small amount I used to do wasn't enough, so just a little got to be more and more. Slowly but surely, it took over my hobbies, work, then eventually family, until the only important thing in the world was making sure that I had enough not to get dope sick. I managed to stay functioning for about a year, and by that I mean I managed to hold down a job, keep up with relationships, and otherwise refrain from being a total screw-up. But after a bad breakup with the one girl that was holding me together, I gave up on any kind of dream or aspiration I had and settled on taking H for the rest of my life instead.

I guess that sounds like a pretty crappy decision when I lay it out like that, but that's essentially what I did. I told myself it was all just temporary, that my so-called hero's journey would end in me kicking H after a few months on my butt, and that it would all end up being a crazy story that I told my drinking buddies one day. Well, a few months turned into six years of lost time, and like I said, the first few holiday seasons weren't so bad. But once I stopped talking to my parents and moved up to Portland, that's when things started getting rough. For a start, a junkie in the Pacific Northwest, the year is split into two halves. As the old

Ella Fitzgerald song goes, summertime and the living is easy. And that's for all the obvious reasons you can imagine. Nice weather, good dope after the dry season harvest down in Mexico, and everyone's relatively chilled out. But then in winter, all you got is dope from the wet season harvest, which is weak crap that barely gets you high. Then on top of that, when it gets real icy or the snow is too thick, getting your hands on enough dope to see you through the day gets tougher and tougher. Then eventually around Christmas, pretty much everyone who isn't a degenerate junkie takes a 24-48 hour break to sing Feliz Navidad, see their families and eat their turkey or whatever. An experienced junkie knows to stock up before then, meaning people are boosting and selling like crazy in anticipation of their dealers turning their cell phones off for the day. So in the run up to Christmas, I'd been squirreling away cash like crazy and on the 23rd, me and my girl managed to score 15 grams of crappy dope that'd be enough to see us through this next week or so, without having to go out into the ice and snow to score more. We scored in the early afternoon, went back to my apartment, did enough to stop getting sick,

then I went off to work for a few hours. My girl had a job working as a waitress and started her shift like an hour or two after I did, so it was normal that I'd come home to an empty apartment. So I finished my shift, one of the guys from work gives me a ride back home, and I got these tingles of exhilaration knowing I'm about to spend an hour or two in a warm bath, with a few bumps of age to keep me company. I walk into my apartment, flop down onto the couch, then reach under it to pull out the little wooden box that we'd kept our dope in, and I sat it down on the coffee table, flipped it open,

but instead of the five little baggies that should have been staring at me, there was nothing. At the time, I figured there had to be some kind of mistake. I had all these wishful thoughts, like maybe my girl had stashed the dope elsewhere after she saw the cops hanging around our apartment building or something. Or maybe she poured all the dope into one of the bigger baggies that we had. You'd honestly be amazed at how much people will pay for baggies when they really, really need them. So maybe she'd sold or swapped the smaller ones then just forgotten to put the

dope back in the box. It sounds really pathetic looking back on it, but it took me a really depressing long amount of time to realize that there wasn't some innocent explanation for 300 bucks worth of dope going missing. My girl wasn't my girl anymore, and on her way out, she'd stolen almost everything of value that she could carry. Again, sounds pretty pathetic, but I think that was one of the single worst moments of my life right there. My immediate reaction was, well, bad, but with addiction comes a certain pragmatism. Every moment I wasted freaking out that the love of my life had betrayed me for a few bags of dope was one that I wasn't spending trying to recoup my losses. So I got to work. I walked for miles, literally miles, making almost constant phone calls to a bunch of different

people. Now don't get it twisted, I was still trying to call my girl but she continued ducking my calls and in the end, it didn't make sense to jam up my line with calls to her voicemail, even if it did mean that I could leave her some threatening voicemails. I'm not proud of it, but it is what it is. Anyway, I call around every dealer I know and everyone is either out of stuff or is finishing up for the night and not answering their phones. All out of options, I started calling around everyone I know that uses and all I can get my hands on is enough dope to last me the night. I walk over to the place, get the stuff, and walk all the way back to my apartment, still trying to get a hook up the whole way. When I get back, I wait until I'm feeling gross,

then I fix, go to bed, and wake up bright and early the next day to start all over again. The next day, pretty much the same thing happened, only without the goddamn disaster at the start of it. I walked all over town, almost constantly on the phone, but all I could find was enough to fix me for that night, and that night alone. Everywhere I went, I was asking if anyone had seen my girl, and when everyone said no, every single time, I had this overwhelming sensation

that they were lying to me. I guess it was partly paranoia, but partly based in fact too because she couldn't have just disappeared on her own like that. Someone knew where she was and who she'd run off with, but even if they knew, they'd never tell me. No one wanted to have the blood on their hands and given the headspace that I was in at the time, I honestly couldn't tell you what I'd have done if I'd gotten my hands on my thieving ex-girlfriend. Anyway, like I said, I did a lot of walking and only managed to get a hold of about a half a gram, so despite having enough to keep me from going into withdrawals on Christmas Eve, I knew Christmas Day was going to be rough as all hell.

But still, the poetry of it wasn't lost on me. Cold turkey on Christmas Day, no better day for it, right? The weird thing, though, is when you're on heroin or any kind of powerful opiate, it kind of makes you chemically incapable of caring. Ever wonder why street junkies seem to have zero shame when it comes to begging or shoplifting? We just don't care. At least after those first few times, if you're deep enough into it, it becomes just another thing. So, I knew I was screwed, but it wasn't going to hit me until I started to get sick, and when it did, it hit me all at once. Around 8.30 on Christmas morning, I started calling everyone I knew who used again.

This was the third day in a row, so people were only naturally starting to get sick of hearing from me. Everyone was either out or didn't have a single hit to spare me, and the more desperate I got, the more I turned to sketchier and sketchier sources. These were people who, for one reason or another, I'd learned not to associate or do business with, and in the case of one of them, I literally had him saved in my contacts as Sketchy Kevin. I worked my way through Sketchy Kevin,

another guy I'd called Pissy Pete, and then finally a guy named Rattail, named so because he wore his hair in a rat tail like ten years ago after it got lame to do so. He also partly earned the nickname due to being a complete and utter scumbag, but by noon on Christmas Day, I was relying on that scumbag to score me some dope. Rattail said that he'd see what he could do

and would call me back if anything came up. About an hour later, he did, but it wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear. Rattail said that there was a dude named George who would just straight up give me a couple of grams, but he just needed a favor. Right away, I thought that that was weird because who the hell just gives away dope? But Rattail said that he wasn't a junkie, and he needed someone who didn't mind getting their hands dirty. I didn't like the sound of that, nor did I have any idea what Rattail meant, but I was also in no position to turn the offer down, so off I went after getting a hold of George's address. The last place I expected to end up that day was a

nice looking three story right on the edge of where the city meets the suburbs. It was way too nice of a place to have any heroin inside but then again, appearances can be deceptive. I walked up the driveway, knocked on the door and some totally normal looking well to do dentist looking dude welcomes me inside like I'm some late dinner guest that he'd been expecting. It was to the point where despite this dude expecting me, I sort of didn't believe that he had the dope to just give away and I started thinking that he was like a cop or something. I don't know how that had worked out but I honestly couldn't mentally handle the setup so I just started asking questions. Where's this dude's family? Did he actually have the dope? Could I see it and could I fix before I did whatever he wanted me to do?

The guy had no problem showing me the dope and he had no problem if I used a little if it helped me get the job done. I was so desperate by then that whatever it was didn't matter. All that mattered was the dope. I took the baggie he gave me, went up to the bathroom and did my thing. All I did was smoke and snort. Never got into needles, always hated them. So it was a relatively quick process of snorting some and then seeing what the deal was with the task that he wanted. And during that, George leads me onto the third floor of the house and into what he said was the guest bedroom. And there, lying on the bed, was the body. The kid looked to be

about high school age and he was just laying on their back, wide-eyed, with all this dried puke around his mouth. I'll never forget what George said to me when I gave him this look of horror. He was 18, I swear. The poor kid's age was the very last thing on my mind in that moment. I had a ton of other questions, and George seemed more than happy to fill me in without me asking. I don't know what happened. One minute we were... you know, then the next he... And that was all he said. Well, aside from the very last thing, which was, I need him gone. I'd rather not go into what happened next. I'm not proud of it, and to be perfectly honest, it's extremely incriminating. I don't imagine George was really George, and I don't know how in the hell he knew a guy like Rattail, but the only thing that keeps my conscience clean is thinking

that at least he didn't kill him. If it was just a tragic accident that happened, I don't know, somehow, then all I did was help clean it up. At least that's what I told myself at the time. And now I'm not so capable of lying to myself that easily. I don't know if the poor kid was ever found, but if he was, it was never linked back to me. Maybe that George character, but never directly to me. And so, that's the story of the worst Christmas I ever had. Where I hid a dead body for some varnished old psycho psycho just to get enough heroin to see me through the holidays. Worst thing is, I didn't even quit for like another year.

Not truly, that is. But that was definitely the event that made me realize that I truly hit rock bottom. Getting clean was rough too, especially rough. I wanted so badly to put things right, but not only was I so high at the time that I'm not sure I could remember exactly where I put all the pieces, but I was far too cowardly to face up to all the terrible things I'd done during my years as a junkie. I guess this works as a sort of confession too, but I think it reads much better as a warning, and not even specifically regarding heroin either.

No matter what you do in life, don't ever sell your soul for anything. And by that I mean, nothing is worth selling your conscience or your innocence for, because they're not things that you can never get back once they're gone. And my second warning is that ghosts are very, very real. They're not real in the sense that you might expect, but if you do something terrible enough to someone innocent enough, you can bet your bottom dollar they'll haunt you for the rest of your life. Just like that poor naked teenager with puke around his mouth still haunts me every single Christmas. 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. In my final year of primary school, which is fifth grade to all you Americans reading, we had this new kid join called Linford. I obviously can't talk for anyone else's school, but I imagine it's roughly the same all over. A new kid joins your school and is a bit standoffish and shy at first for obvious reasons. But after a few days of assimilating, they're either adopted by an individual or inducted into a pre-existing friend group. But that wasn't the case with Linford. Right away, kids began to say that Linford smelled.

It was confirmed by anyone who sat next to him in class or in assembly or at dinner time. He didn't stink, it wasn't unbearable or anything like that, but I remember smelling him myself at one point and just feeling sorry for him. I was only 10, but I was old enough to know that if this kid smelled, there was definitely something wrong with his home life. I think a lot of kids probably felt the same way, but no one wanted to approach him for fear of being labeled the smelly kid's friend. Then finally, when someone did finally approach Linford, they soon regretted it. I remember there being a big fight one day on the school playground and

all the kids ran over to watch. I was no different but when I look at the two who were fighting, I saw that it wasn't so much a fight as it was a battering. Linford was smacking the smaller kid around the head while the kid tried desperately to shield himself. Teachers rushed over, wading through the sea of screaming kids to break this fight up, and Linford got suspended for the rest of the week while his victim only went home for the rest of the day. We had to wait a day to find out how the fight had started but when we did it was pretty shocking. Apparently all the kid did was walk over to Linford and ask if he wanted to come and play football with him and some friends

and that was it. Nothing was said in return. Linford just launched into the attack and started smacking the kid about. This was pretty terrifying to be honest. Even at that age, we kind of knew that Linford was a bit of a psycho if that's how he reacted to a friendly invitation. And when he returned to school at the start of the following week, everyone avoided him like the plague. That phase was even more depressing than the period after he first appeared. He'd obviously got a talking to from his parents and the head teacher, most likely encouraging him to make more of an effort to make friends. But by that stage, that ship had well and truly sailed. Everyone was terrified of him, so any attempts to ingratiate himself were almost instantly rebuffed.

I remember kids saying things like, He's nice now, but how long until he snaps and lashes out again? And so that was that. Linford remained friendless, despite any attempt that he made to change that, and as time went on, those attempts got much, much more bizarre and much darker. And it all culminated in Linford bringing a gerbil to school in an empty plastic rice pot. I'll never forget that. It was a pilau rice pot with all the different colored grains, but it was a pot that Linford had forgotten to equip with air holes. Obviously, the gerbil didn't survive the journey into school, but that didn't

seem to bother Linford at all. He got caught playing with the poor thing's lifeless, suffocated body, and that was the end of Linford. I don't know where he went, if he went to some kind of behavioral school or something, but I most certainly didn't think that I'd ever see him again. So cut to the middle of year 11, which is 10th grade in American years, but the last compulsory year that we have to actually do in the UK. Seeing as it's the last year, we gotta do exams, so obviously year 11 is quite an important one. Then in mid-October I think it was, we had a new kid appear in our year group, presumably having moved from another school so he could do his exams at ours instead of wherever he was before. This is obviously a different school than the one I met Linford at, and although a lot of us ended up going to the same primary and secondary,

it wasn't all the same people. That meant that when I heard the news of the new kid, that was all I heard. I didn't realize who it was until I actually laid eyes on him. It was Linford, a 16-year-old version of the psycho that had played with a dead gerbil on his desk during a lunch break. And he'd grown up to be, as my little nephew says, an absolute unit. As you can imagine, news of who the new kid was swept through our school like wildfire and just like it had all those years ago, rumors of what he was like had everyone either straight up avoiding him or walking on eggshells whenever he was around. He was scary back then, but now he was somewhere around 5'10 and easily 15 stone to boot. I know I kept talking about how sad it all is, but I really do feel like the

need to touch on it again. Linford had clearly never made any friends in the time that he'd been elsewhere, and while we'd all developed into charismatic young people right on the cusp of adulthood, Linford seemed like the same weird loner he appeared to be in primary school. But then, just like the first time he joined our school, any sympathy people had for him quickly evaporated when he started acting like a total jerk to everyone. So in the last two years of secondary school, I was having this will-they-won't-they kind of flirtation with a girl called Laura. We ended up getting together for a while after we left school, but while we were there, I think we were just too embarrassed

to admit that we fancied each other, so we insisted that we were just friends while hanging out with each other almost non-stop. Anyway, one day, Laura comes up to me during lunch and tells me that she's got a bit of a problem. Linford had followed her home on the previous night, then stood outside her house until her dad went outside to shoo him away. I remember the sense of dread building as she talked because I could see what she was about to ask me from a mile away. She wanted me to approach Linford and tell him to stop following her home. Now I'll be honest, Linford did scare me, but that fear was somehow overridden by whatever nascent puppy love I was feeling for Laura, so possibly against my best interest, I told her that I'd have a word with him.

Then, at the end of the day, when it came time for Laura to walk herself home, I decided to walk with her. It was a bit of a detour from my own route home, but like I said, it seemed well worth it to prove what a good friend I was aka boyfriend. We started on the walk then what do you know Linford suddenly appeared behind us unmistakable with his jet black hair and telltale squint. Linford apparently needed glasses but he never wore them. The moment I saw him I stopped told Laura to wait ahead of us, then walked back to confront Linford. I asked him if he was following Laura home, but he didn't even so much as look at me. All he did was sort of smirk a bit and then try to walk past me. In response, I walked with him, ready to sigh, telling him,

I don't think Laura wants you to be following her home, Nate. You should stop. Again, he just ignores me, but I can tell he's getting worked up, so I took a few steps away from him as I asked him once again if he thought following a girl home was maybe a bit of a bad idea. He didn't respond, not right away, and I was about to launch into another little plea to stop following us when, out of nowhere, he swung a punch at me and missed. I know it sounds a bit daft looking back on it, but I remember asking him, Whoa, whoa, whoa, what's your bloody problem?

His eyes went all wide and he pointed a finger at me, then screamed, You! You're my starting problem! I thought he was going to launch himself at me there and then, but he didn't. Instead, he turned his back, then walked off in the direction he'd come from. Bearing in mind that this was my first actual interaction with Linford. We'd never, ever spoken before, not even in primary school for any reason. But then the way he spoke to me, it was like we'd been arch rivals for years or something. I suppose that looking back on it with hindsight,

he resented me for being so close to Laura. So while I thought of him as nothing more than the lad who was a bit weird and sad, he'd been developing this full-on hatred for me for weeks on end. Thankfully, he stopped trying to follow Laura home after that, but instead, he turned his attentions to me. Linford gave me death stares whenever he and I crossed paths, and I'll be honest, it definitely had me a bit worried. He used to openly read this book about serial killers, which the teachers never did anything about because I suppose that technically, reading meant that he was educating himself, and they probably didn't want to discourage it. But then that made me and everyone I hung around with think that Linford might actually pull some serial killer level crap and axe me to death in the corridors one day.

I mean, we were sort of half joking about it, but the other half was legitimately concerned. And when the Christmas holidays rolled around, I was only too happy to have a break from the daily death stares. But then the day school ended, Linford tried following me home instead. I should have just tried to punch him, anything to stop him from following me, but I'm just not that type of person. I wasn't some hard case back then and I'm not some hard case now either so the idea of me trying to box this lad who was way taller and wider than me is just laughable. Luckily Linford didn't seem to want to fight either but at the same time there was nothing I could do about him following me. He kept his distance but obviously wanted me to know that

he was following me because he wasn't exactly trying to hide it or anything. I tried losing him by walking in a circle around the local park but no matter what I did, be it run across a field or suddenly change direction, he managed to get wind of where I'd gone and follow me. By the time I got to my house I actually thought that I'd managed to lose him but when I looked over my shoulder to check one last time before I walked through my front door, there he was. I felt sick, not because he outsmarted me, or because he displayed a sort of Michael Myers-level dedication to tracking my movements, but because I felt like I'd put my family at risk. I almost started to regret sticking up for Laura the way that I did. Because we knew her dad could handle the situation, he was a big scary looking builder, whereas my dad was much more like me,

not a fighter by any stretch and definitely no match for a now 16 year old Linford. I remember keeping it to myself, which was unbelievably foolish in retrospect. Firstly, I thought that I'd end up on punishment for making trouble at school than bringing it home. Secondly, I knew that mentioning Linford to my parents would have a dark cloud hanging over us for the whole Christmas holidays. I was horribly anxious, but as the days went by and we got closer and closer to Christmas without incident, I started to think that Linford might just leave me alone. Turns out, I was right. Linford wasn't actually planning to do anything to me or my family, but the same couldn't be said for Laura.

On Christmas Eve Eve, so the 23rd of December, I remember I stayed in bed much later than I usually would, then woke up to a load of missed calls on my phone, each of them from Laura. I called her back right away, assuming that it had to be some kind of emergency, and my biggest fear was that it was something to do with Linfred. And again, I just so happened to be right. She missed my first few calls calls but called me back quite quickly then basically said, I hope you're sitting comfortably because I got a story for you. You see, the previous night, everyone in Laura's house had been in bed when her dad was woken up

by a noise coming from downstairs. Laura's house at the time was tall and skinny so TV and dining rooms on the bottom floor, parents room and bathroom on the first, then the two kids' rooms on the very top floor. Laura said that she didn't hear anything until much later, but her parents did, and when they a person, dressed in all dark clothing, carrying a rucksack and he's trying to quite literally push their back patio doors in. Lauren's dad armed himself with a baseball bat that he kept under their bed while her mom called the police and together they watched this dark figure trying and failing over and over to push through their patio doors. I suppose it was an attempt to gain entry to the house as silently as possible, and having seen those patio doors myself, I know they open both outward and inward. My point is, there was a real possibility that if someone had neglected to lock the door up tight, the person might have been able to gain access to the house in almost complete silence. Anyway, since it was a crime in progress, as they say, the police whizzed around

pretty quickly, snuck around the back, then rugby tackled the would-be intruder. And at that, Laura's dad runs downstairs to give them a hand, but Laura said that all he kept saying was, let me get a look at him, let me get a look at him, let me get a look at him. Burglars are depressingly common around this time of year, with all the manner of expensive Christmas presents just sitting there under various trees. I think that was probably everyone's first thought, but then it must have hit Laura's dad before it hit her because it was only when he said, let me take a look at him, that she realized who it might have been, or rather, who it actually was. She said that she got chills the moment her dad said, yeah, that's him. He was here a few weeks

ago after he followed my daughter home. It was Linford. Now, the fact that he tried to break into her house in the middle of the night was frightening enough, but that was nothing on what Linford had in his backpack. The police found all sorts of pills, rope, knives, tools, a load of cheap headphones, and a cassette tape. The police told Laura's dad they tried playing the tape, but all that was on it was a weird kind of discordant music. Linford wouldn't explain what he was planning on doing. I know he was arrested, but he ended up getting charged with a load of different things, and I don't think I can remember them all off the top of my head. I know he got charged with attempted breaking and entering, but then there were other charges involving conspiracy to do all sorts of different things. I think kidnap was one, GBH was another, but then there was odds and sods in there too on

account of all the crap that he had in his rucksack, something like conspiracy to administer poisons, something like that anyway. But regardless, Linford ended up doing a disappearing act for the second time, much to our relief, and if he managed to sit his exams, it definitely wasn't in our school. I sometimes wonder if he ended up going to kiddie prison and for how long, because if it were up to me, he'd be in some kind of loony bin to get some proper treatment. He was so obviously a wrongin' from the start that it just makes sense to think that there was either something wrong with him or he came from some uber messed up household with god knows what kind of parents there to mess him up. Either way, if he got locked up, I hope he got some actual treatment for whatever was wrong with him, instead of just getting worse and worse until I end up seeing him on the front page of a newspaper over something truly terrible that he's done. The weirdest thing is though, I sometimes

think that thing might involve me. He'd already shown up twice before in my life, why not a third? And if he's gotten worse and worse with age, what will he be like if I suddenly run into him in a dark alley one night? I suppose I might never know the answers to those questions. But what I do know is that if I ever run into Linford, I'll run getting a six-month prison sentence for credit card fraud. The ins and outs of it are sort of embarrassing, plus they aren't particularly interesting either. I was a greedy idiot who thought that he was smarter than everyone else, and then the Fed proved me wrong. Then, instead of trying to play it off like it was all just an innocent mistake, which at that stage would have risked getting me three to four years, I decided to take a plea deal. I had to sit down with two federal agents, explain exactly what I'd done and how I'd done it. Then after officially

entering a plea of guilty, I got six months. My release date ended up being December 24th of 2006 and like every other prisoner with a short sentence, I was counting the days until my release. I had guys telling me not to do that, that I should just focus on keeping myself busy and that the days would take care of themselves. I was also housed with other non-violent prisoners so although there was friction in the occasional fight between inmates, we didn't have to worry about all that stuff that goes on with the gangbangers and lifers that were housed in other tiers. I thought everyone around me was just a screw-up like I was, that there were no murderers, perverts, or other kind of psychopaths, but as I came to discover, that wasn't completely true. My cellmate was an okay dude, but we weren't close, so whenever we had any free

time, I used to hang out with this group of three other guys. We'd just play cards and dominoes, chess or checkers, whatever we could get our hands on, and from time to time, we'd be joined by this guy that they called Spike. He looked to be in his late 30s, receding hairline, bright blue eyes, kind of a baby face considering how old he really was. He could have easily passed for a very stressed college senior and he had the intelligence to match. When it came to chess and poker, Spike was the one you wanted to beat. I guess he'd had years to practice, but he was just on another level when it came to a thinking man's game. We'd all be talking crap to each other and Spike would just stay quiet, thinking things over until it came to

making his move. I always assumed that he was in for some high-level financial stuff, that he'd probably scanned some hedge fund out of millions before he finally slipped up or something, but I also never cared to ask him for what exactly he was in for. I can't speak for other prisons, or even other tiers of the one I did my time in, but generally speaking, you didn't ask what someone was in for when it came to non-violent crimes. If a guy was in for doing something to kids, they were generally kept sequestered from other prisoners, especially the violent ones. So on the whole, you just have an idea of what a guy isn't for and you let sleeping dogs lie, as they say. But anyway, I do my six months and on release day, I'm going around saying goodbye

to all the guys that I got in tight with and giving most of my stuff away. I get around most people and then it comes to saying goodbye to Spike. As usual, he didn't say all that much, but just like pretty much everyone else I talked to, they asked if I had plans for the holidays. I gave everyone the same reply and told him that I was planning on spending the holidays up at my parents' place up in Vegas. I'd been looking forward to it for months and it seemed like the perfect antidote to spending six months inside. When they first got the news that I was headed to prison, they were a mix of furious and heartbroken. There was talk of cutting me off and how I was quote-unquote killing my mother. But over time, their anger faded. All they wanted was for me to come home and frankly, that's all I wanted too. I didn't share all of that with Spike, but I think he got the gist of how I was feeling regarding my status as the all-prodigal son.

Most other guys had simply shaken my hand and said something to the effect of, Have a good one, don't let me see you back here. But Spike actually took the time to give me some poetic advice. He told me to cherish every second I could with my nearest and dearest, because God knows you miss them when they're gone. It was advice that I took right there on the spot to my heart, and as the CO walked me out of the tier later, I caught Spike's eye, and he reminded me of the advice that he'd given me. He didn't say what it was, not out loud, but we both knew. Now about a

minute later, the CO leading me to the departures, that's literally what they're called, just like an airport, asked me, do you know who that guy is? I told him, sure I did, that was Spike. But then the CO asked me if I knew who he really was. For the first time and the whole time that I was locked up, it actually occurred to me that no, I didn't really know any of the guys that I'd shared a tear with. I mean, sure, I knew their day to day, I knew their individual personalities, but I didn't know all that much about their past or the specific details of the crimes they committed. I remember the distinct feeling of dread I felt as I asked him who Spike really was. And this is literally right as the CO is dropping me off at departures for processing.

Mitchell Overhand, he told me. Go look him up. The first chance I got, I googled Mitchell Overhand and what I found had my jaw on the floor. You see, back in 1989, a 15-year-old Mitchell, or Spike as I'd come to know him, had a falling out with his mom and dad. I don't know what it was over, but from what I read, the relationship between them had been strained for quite some time. And then one day, Mitchell walks into the kitchen, or TV room, or whatever his mom and dad were sitting in, and shot them both at point-blank range. He took his dad out right away, maybe with a head or heart shot, I don't know for sure, but his mom was still alive. Then, either because he was out of bullets or because he felt like it, Mitchell took a claw hammer from his dad's tool kit,

then bashed his mom's head in with it to finish her off. When he was done, he dragged their bodies into a shallow grave that he dug in a backyard flower bed, covered them over and cleaned up the house, then threw a party for himself and his friends. To know the guy, you never would have guessed in a million years that he'd committed a crime like that. He was quiet, introspective, never did anything without thinking about it a whole bunch first. I guess that's what made him so good at poker, and I also guess it's a lesson

that he learned the hard way. I also assumed that he'd moved in with the non-violent prisoners after it became obvious that he wasn't violent by nature. He must have done a few years in juvie before being transferred to an adult prison, and when he arrived they must have figured, hey, seems non-violent to us, let's house him appropriately. I never spoke to Spike again. I never talked to any of the guys I did time with actually, but as you can probably tell, I still think about them from time to time. More than I did time with actually, but as you can probably tell, I still think about them from time to time. More than time to time, actually. I think Spike made a terrible mistake

in a fit of rage and spent the rest of his years regretting it. I'm not saying he didn't deserve to be locked up for it. I mean, at the time I can understand why people would brand him as a monster then lock him up and throw away the key. But the man I met was not the same boy who killed his parents on a whim and it made the advice that he gave me about cherishing my time with them and how I'll miss them when they're gone. All the more haunting. Whenever I sleep outside of my normal bedroom, you know, like in a hotel somewhere like that, I hear this strange sound. It almost sounds like someone sighing or exhaling. It's somewhere in the room but I can never find out where it's coming from. It sounds like there is someone else sleeping in the room with me. I can hear this noise if the lights are on and still cannot find the source of the noise. It's just really strange.

I have tried taking photos and videos with my smartphone, but when I play them back, I get nothing. I turn the lights off, squint, and wait for my eyes to become adjusted to the darkness, and sometimes I feel like there is something amidst the darkness. I can't be sure, though. It feels like there is something in the room with me now and then, some shape in the dark, and the feeling is quite creepy. I get worried whenever I hear that sign, that exhaling noise, and it becomes impossible to ignore it. I first noticed it last September and once I heard it, there was no way to unhear it.

I travel a lot for work and my company seems to have this wonderful skill where they are able to locate the cheapest and most out of the way hotels that money can buy. I guess maybe sleeping in all these run down motels and hotels could have created this nervousness and maybe I am imagining things. Well that was what I thought, until the other night. I heard the same sound at home, the one place that I hadn't heard it before. It happened when I came home late from work. I remember I bought pasta that night, and I was eating it at the kitchen table. My whole family was sleeping, my eyes were really dry, so I reached for the eye drops and put a

drop in each eye, and I'm still sat at the kitchen table at this point. I then heard that strange sighing sound. I wanted to open my eyes but since I had just put the drops in them I couldn't open them straight away. So I slowly opened my right eye, only a little bit, and I looked around the kitchen and of course, like always, there was nothing there. It was new. Like I said, I had only heard it when I was away from my home, but that night I heard it in my home. Now I was annoyed. I wanted some answers. I wasn't in a hotel. I was at home so I could investigate as much as I'd like and that's what I did. I looked around the kitchen but the sound wasn't coming from there. Maybe it was coming from the hallway. No, over towards the

back door perhaps. No, I couldn't find it. I was really straining my ears while I was searching. I felt like the sound was definitely in the kitchen. I left the room and walked back in to reset or get fresh ears. Is that even a phrase? I don't know. As soon as I re-entered the kitchen. I left the room and walked back in to reset or get fresh ears. Is that even a phrase? I don't know. As soon as I re-entered the kitchen, I heard the sound and it sounded like it was coming from somewhere close to the refrigerator. The thought that it was just a mechanical noise and I had too many late nights crossed my mind until I heard the sound mixed in with a dull hum of the refrigerator. It's here.

I know it's around here, I thought as I bent over searching. The sound was louder for the first time, and it felt like I was actually getting closer. And with that in mind, I decided to hit the lights to see if it made a difference. Usually, I need some time to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and that's when I feel like I can almost see something. But that night, something was different. My left eye. I could see very clearly from that eye in the dark.

I guess it was because I kept my left eye shut while I was searching around the kitchen, and this was interesting. My vision seemed to improve more with my right eye shut too. After a few moments, I saw two white dots emerge out of the darkness. I quickly realized that these were the whites of someone's eyes. Then I could see that the pupils of those eyes were dark, almost black. These eyes in the darkness were looking directly at me. I gasped in shock. I had never seen anything like that before.

I kept looking. I couldn't stop and to my surprise I could see the figure of someone, the owner of those eyes. It looked as if though they were tied up, their limbs were clearly bound. The mouth wasn't really visible. I realized why. There was tape over their mouth. The sound that I was hearing was the inhalation and exhalation through their nose. I could sense that there was no panic in this person, there was just some aura of hopeless acceptance. They were not fighting against their situation. The atmosphere in the darkness of my kitchen was that of pure desolation and surrender. The steady, patient exhales and inhales continued, and I could only watch in stunned horror.

I couldn't move. After a few moments, I couldn't tell you how many, the figure of the bound person appeared to become blurry, and then it faded into the darkness. To this day, I have no idea why this person, or perhaps should I say apparition, appeared to me. I haven't heard the breathing again in my home, and I really wish I knew more about that my home, and I really wish I knew more

about that poor soul, and I wonder if I'll ever hear it again. Next week, I'll be going on another business trip, and I will do the same things that I did last time in an attempt to see the bound person again. I'll use my eyedrops and get accustomed to the dark. Perhaps I will see them again. I'm not sure. I am both excited and terrified. This happened before a national holiday not too long ago. I didn't have school the next day and that's always a cause for celebration, but I was up kind of late for my age as it was about 10.30. I was in high school back then, and I will just have to quickly explain my family dynamic because it'll make sense later. My father passed away when I was younger. My mom works all the time and I live with my grandparents.

That night my granddad was out and my grandma was downstairs somewhere. I was studying for exams, high pressure stuff that I was supposed to care about massively for some reason. I was more interested in my music back then to be honest, and I used to listen to my tunes through the PSP. I was taking a break from studying, you know, just giving my eyes a rest, so I set my PSP down and I leaned back on my chair and shut my eyes for a second. I opened them and then looked at my bedroom door. I noticed something and it sent my head into a spin. I saw something weird. It was like the figure of a person. A person who wasn't a family member. It was just this shadowy shape peering at me around the door of the room across the hall.

Across the hall was an empty room, and there was no logical reason why that shadow should be cast in that room. I first thought that my mom or grandma had left the window open to air out the house, and I was seeing a very human-looking curtain position or said curtain being caught on the balcony or something. It seemed highly implausible. Especially since the way it seemed to be leering around the door to look at me. It was no trick of the light. I watched that shadow then emerge from the spare room and enter the hallway. It was like it was fixated on me, and even though it was dark I could tell by the movements of that thing that it was facing me.

It crept around the door in the hallway with its back against the door in the hallway wall. I then watched it as it slowly backed off towards the stairs, and before I could see it descend the stairs, it disappeared. And here's the weird thing. It looked like it was the same height as me, and by its silhouette, it looked like it had the same hair and clothes that I had It's really hard to explain Now like I said, it was just my grandma and I in that house at the time She didn't go upstairs much because she had bad hips

But if it was her, I would recognize her silhouette and surely she would hit a light or something. I was left there in my chair, shuddering, trying to understand what I had just witnessed. What does it mean? Something that kind of looked like me was watching me from the other room. Why and for what purpose? Was this some kind of spirit or a shadow person? Did it leave because I spotted it? What would have happened if I didn't notice its presence? I was just horrified. When my brain searched and searched for logical answers and came back with none, it was just as terrifying. I started to freak out a bit and then I thought, what if it comes back? I didn't want to go downstairs because that was the last place

that I saw that thing head off to. I still have no idea what the hell that was and I lived in that house right up until I moved out and feared that I would see that shadowy figure again but thankfully I didn't. I did wonder if it could have been a home intruder. Maybe I guess. I was young. Maybe I didn't know. But I don't know though. I think I would have seen some features of that inv and call me weak. I didn't want my mom to worry about me when she was out working so many hours, and I do wonder if they would have believed me sometimes. To be continued... 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'll be completely honest with you. I had next to no idea what I wanted to do with my life when I first applied to university. I'd always been interested in crime

and police drama, so I had an inkling that I'd end up doing something related to criminal justice, I just wasn't exactly sure what it'd be. My mom had dreams of me being a barrister, or an attorney here in the UK, but I didn't think that I had the smarts for that kind of thing. I also didn't fancy anything too morbid, which put me at odds with almost everyone else on my course. Most of them wanted to get into forensics or CID, which is where you go to be a homicide detective or join the drug squad. On the other hand, I felt like I wanted to do something a bit more analytical, something impactful but more behind the scenes. I know that makes me seem like some fussy little bugger, and I wouldn't blame you for thinking that.

Yet if I can make one little correction, I think I was more like an indecisive little bugger. But a few years of study helped me see to that. The more I studied, the more I approached a kind of epiphany. Statistically, it's only a small proportion of the population that commits crime, usually less than 10% of a country's overall population. Then, with certain crimes, that statistic is even smaller. For example, with shoplifting, it's only something like 0.2% of the British population that account for all incidents of shoplifting. That's only about 100,000 people out of a population of almost

70 million. My point is, it seemed like the best way to reduce certain types of crime was to focus on preventing re-offending, as opposed to harsher sentences for said re-offending that would inevitably cause a person to sink deeper into criminality. Once I'd made my mind up about that, my ever-elusive career path lit up in front of me, and I took my first step on the road to becoming a probation officer. I volunteered with the Prison Advice and Care Trust when I was in third year, an organization which provides support services to newly released prisoners. I honestly just did it to get a taste of what it'd be like working with former prisoners, as I still had a few lingering doubts over whether or not I'd be

any good at it. But when it came to applying for the trainee probation officer program following my graduation from uni, the Ministry of Justice practically bit my arm off, owing to that prior experience. I spent six months attending a nearby learning development unit where I was taught the tricks of the trade, then after a series of rigorous computer-based tests, I was cleared as an officer of Her Majesty's Prison and Probation Service. It was a bit surreal at first, especially when I told all my mates from back home about it. They couldn't picture me dealing with hardened criminals on a daily basis, and honestly, neither could I. I did a load of conflict management and de-escalation training at the LDU, and it was all great training that I learned a lot from, but

I also heard a couple of horror stories that served as examples of how not to tackle a tense situation with a client. And that's the word we were taught to use client some think it's a much better term than probationer or ex-prisoner in that it's a much softer much more hopeful terminology but it never really sat right with me client makes it sound like we're doing them a favor when really i think going straight is them doing us the biggest favor possible anyway my first few cases were massively challenging but after that i started to get the when really, I think going straight is them doing us the biggest favor possible. Anyway, my first few cases were massively challenging, but after that, I started to get the hang of things. I dealt with a lot of lads who had been caught in one little street fight on a drunken Saturday night. They weren't hardened criminals, and the last thing they ever wanted was

to go back to prison, so getting them into work and sticking to routines we'd laid out was easy. Then, there were people who were in prison for dealing drugs. Blokes who had been in for lengthier stretches sometimes seemed like they genuinely wanted to get out of the game, but the ones who'd been in for three or four months for selling cannabis, you knew that they were going straight back to dealing no matter what you said or did for them. I had this one lad who said that he'd signed up to do bicycle deliveries for Uber Eats. I personally saw him whizzing all over town on two different occasions. I'd literally never seen anyone so keen on getting back into work. But then, when I checked with Uber Eats and gave them the bogus courier ID that he'd given me, I discovered that he must have done a grand total of two or three deliveries

before he started using his big green delivery back as essentially a cover to go back to dealing. For the most part, that was about as exciting as it got. Clients trying to give you the runaround, having to chase down where they are and what they're doing. But I quickly came to prefer that more mundane sort of work as the alternative was much, much worse. Every so often, I was given one of two cases. A sex offender or a murderer. There were exceptions here and there, but when you're around someone who's taken a life, it's like there's a heaviness in the room. I'm not talking about people convicted of things like manslaughter or death by dangerous driving, who are, more often than not, haunted by

the people whose lives they've taken until the day they die. I'm talking about murderers, people convicted of killing in cold blood, or for money, or just for the sick bloody thrill of it. One or two of them, I'd never have guessed that they were a killer without having seen their case file, and I think they were the creepiest of the lot because you could see why someone might trust them enough to put themselves in a vulnerable position. But the single creepiest client I've had so far was a sex offender. Now don't get me wrong, they're all frightening people in their own way, but they're especially frightening if the offense has anything to do with children. Obviously, I wasn't dealing with child killers or dangerous predators against children because

they tend to get whole life tariffs and therefore no probation, but some of the clients that I did deal with who had been to prison for these offenses were just as sick, just as predatory, and just as creepy as the ones who'd killed. They just never crossed that line and took a life. I was about two and a half years into my career when my boss dropped by my desk with a caseload for me to work through. A caseload contains anywhere from a handful of cases to two dozen of them, sometimes even more. You can generally count on a bigger caseload contains anywhere from a handful of cases to two dozen of them, sometimes even more. You can generally count on a bigger caseload to include a lot of low-priority clients, i.e. those released after serving sentences for relatively minor offenses.

You could get a drink-driving case, maybe someone who perjured themselves in court, which happens a lot more than you'd think, and all you had to do was stop in with them every so often, have a chat and a cup of tea, and they'd always be sticking to their post-release goals and all of that. It'd be a time-consuming caseload, but generally not a stressful one. The stressful ones came when a caseload was only three or four files deep, and if it was that small, you knew what to expect. Murderer or sex offender, and this caseload was no different. There were four cases. A murderer, a second murderer, a third murderer, and a sex offender. As usual, my heart sank when I saw the words on that fourth

file. Like I said, dealing with these type of people is always an unpleasant experience, but when the offense is related to the abuse or exploitation of children, it's doubly skin-crawling. With some clients, it pays to be emotional because when they see that you really give a toss about them, that they're not just a number or a statistic to you, they start to give a toss too. But every time I walked into a room with a convicted sex offender, I had to leave my emotions at the door. It's not exactly an unconscious act either. In the past, I've had to actively pretend that the person in front of me was no different than any other client. I made no reference to what they'd done, focused entirely

on their future, and kept whatever they'd been convicted of completely out of my head. Because if even just for one small second you remind yourself that they preyed on a child, you just can't do your job anymore. And it's the process of switching off my emotions that I found myself repeating one morning on my first visit to the offender that I'd been assigned to. Now, I'd get the sack if I'd use this bloke's real name, so I'll just call him Jimmy. Because as repulsive as it is, this bloke had a very weirdly similar vibe to Jimmy Savile. He didn't have the hair or the chains or the tracksuit, nothing like that, but he had this let's be friends kind of vibe to him, along with this air of arrogance, like he'd forgotten where

he'd just come from and why. He was in his 50s and looked relatively harmless at first glance, but once you knew what he'd been convicted of, you realized just how dangerous he really was. Back when he was in his 20s, Jimmy had been working for a painting and decorating firm and drove a small three-wheeler van from job to job. One day, he sees an 11-year-old girl playing in the street with her mates after school. He calls her over and starts offering to teach her to smoke. Wild thing to do in this day and age, but it was the 70s back then, so a very different time. Anyway, the girl says yes to the offer of being taught how to smoke because, again, different time, but is scared that her mom will see.

Jimmy then gets her in his van and drives her off somewhere secluded, but then he doesn't try to teach the girl to smoke. Instead, he tried to teach her to do something else. When the girl refused, Jimmy tied her up, beat the girl black and blue, and then kicked her out of his van and drove off. The girl walked two miles back into town, binding still around her wrists, and went straight to the nearest police station to make a report. Jimmy was convicted on the testimony of the girl, her friends, and a passerby who'd said that they'd heard a girl crying in the

parked van, but didn't think anything of it until the police made an appeal for information. That, along with a trove of indecent images found in his flat, landed Jimmy with almost 50 years in prison for each separate offense. He got out after 35. My first meeting with him was the same as any other, a basic introduction to myself and the probation scheme, then a rough outline of what would be expected of him over the months to come. Obviously, clients are sometimes restricted from going near certain places, and in Jimmy's case, he was barred from anywhere where there'd be kids. But then the probation service very much takes a busy hands or happy hands approach to rehabilitation, and the way you keep a person from being tempted to go to said places is to make sure that they've got hobbies. I know it sounds daft, giving this creep a jigsaw puzzle and he'll stop wanting to

touch kids, but they've done studies on it, and if you keep these people occupied, if you can tire them out entirely mentally or physically, the risk of long and short-term re-offending drops by 50%, which in our game is a significant number. So, on the first visit, when it came to briefly covering the whole hobbies thing, Jimmy mentioned that he'd taken up sketching in prison, and that he'd continued it post-release as it kept his head straight as he put it. I then asked if he had any drawings to show me and he said that he did. A lot of blokes will make out that they've got a hobby or that they've taken up running or any number of things,

but when you call them on it, they've yet to pick up the trainers or yet to sign up for XYZ because they've been oh so busy post-release. But then Jimmy got up, walked over to the little coffee table in his living room and then brought back a sketchbook of things that he'd been working on. He opened up the book and right away I was struck by how bloody good he was. There were all these horses, amazingly drawn ones too, in all kinds of different poses. I asked Jim if he liked horses and he told me, not really, they're just the hardest thing to draw. Draw a horse and you can draw a human no problem.

He mentioned a few other things about form and curvature, but I wasn't really listening at that point. I was completely dumbfounded by how good his drawings were. But then considering that he'd been practicing for the better part of two decades, he was exactly as good as he should have been. Still though, I was awfully impressed and if he already had a hobby boxed off then it made my job a lot easier if I could just use the drawing as proof of his extracurricular activities. It also gave me huge peace of mind too because offenders have a recidivism rate that floats around 15% depending on which studies you read, and that's always in the back of your mind when you're dealing with them. It could be your actions or your observations that send them back to prison before they get a chance to re-offend, but then obviously that's a hell of

a lot of pressure. Having a serial shoplifter go back on the rob and the Gordon's Gin Company loses a tenner. Have a kid touch or re-offend and the victim deals with it for years, possibly even for the rest of their lives. I kept a close eye on Jimmy and although I won't say where, I managed to get him back into work. Everything appeared to be going okay, and for a while I was half convinced that he really did want to go back on the straight and narrow. But at the same time, there were other things that made me suspect that he hadn't quite turned over a new leaf. He seemed to be trying a bit too hard to convince me that he was ready

to live a normal life, and then whenever something in our discussions didn't go his way, it was like you saw his fake happy-go-lucky persona drop for a second and you saw the real Jimmy underneath. It was that duplicity that made me want to keep a closer eye on him, and in situations like that, the devil can quite literally be in the details. For example, the halfway house we placed Jimmy in was in this big old Georgian looking building and each of the rooms had these floor to ceiling windows. This meant that on the way in to have a chat with him, I could actually see into the living room of Jimmy's little flat there before I got to the front door. And then one day, as I'm walking in to see him, I spy him through the window doing another one of

his drawings but then instead of a book with a gray cover like the one he'd showed me during the first visit I could quite clearly see that the book that he was drawing in then had a sort of pinky purple cover. I think if it had been any other color I might have missed it, but the distinctive hue just so happened to catch my eye. Once I was inside, it was down to emotionless business as usual, but then just as I was leaving, I asked him, Moved on to a new sketchbook, huh? But instead of showing me his latest work, he gave me this confused look and then told

me, No, still working on the same one. I told him I was quite certain that he'd been drawing in a pink sketchbook as I caught a glimpse of him on the way in, but with the same bewildered expression, Jimmy claimed to have no idea what I was talking about. I knew that he'd been drawing in a different colored sketchbook, there was no way that I was mistaken, so I reminded him that hiding things or engaging in any kind of duplicity whatsoever was a very bad look for someone in his position. He put on that let's be friends attitude again, and then invited me to search the flat for any

sign of this non-existent pink sketchbook. I didn't call his bluff, not right away. If he was confident enough to invite me to search his flat, then he probably had a very effective hiding place, and although I had next to no idea what was in it, I knew at that point I had to find it. As I said earlier, if a client displays any kind of duplicitous behavior, it can speak volumes. In the case of that Uber Eats cannabis dealer, the consequences can be minimal. But in the case of someone like Jimmy, incompetence on the part of a probation officer can spell disaster for an innocent member of the public. The only problem was, I couldn't exactly go throwing around allegations willy-nilly. Say I went to my bosses and told them

I suspect a client is doing something rather sneaky, so I need officers to turn his flat upside down so I can find a notebook I'm not even certain is there anymore. And then the police don't find the book. I could lose my job. I'm not saying I want to live in a world where past and present prisoners don't have any rights and are denied a chance to turn their lives around. I respect the fact that I needed evidence of my suspicions. But sometimes, bridging the gap between suspicion and accusation can be very frustrating indeed, especially when it comes to someone as downright cunning as Jimmy.

It took about six or seven weeks before I was able to catch him drawing in that little pink book again. I was in my car, binoculars in hand, which, by the way, was about the only time I ever felt like the trench coat wearing noir detective that I'd always dreamed about and read about when I was a kid. Then, once I was satisfied that he was using his little pink book, I gave him a quick call on my mobile as I continued to watch him. He actually jumped when he heard his phone going and when he picked up. I saw him do that reverse werewolf transformation of going from startled and moody face to greeting me like a long lost friend. I told him that I'd been a right divvy and had messed up my diary and had double booked for our meeting the next day. I followed up by asking him in the nicest way possible if I could stop by for a chat maybe in the next five minutes or so because I was just around the corner. Jimmy said sure, no problem and then we ended the

call. I then watched as Jimmy closed the pink book, picked it up and then walked off to a corner of his flat before bending down. Next time I saw him, there was no pink book in his hand. Wherever he was hiding it, it was in that particular corner that he just scurried off to before he appeared empty handed. It made sense that he couldn't hide the book in his bathroom as the moisture would probably ruin the pages or something, so it had to be in his living room somewhere, and it had to be down pretty low. The next time Jimmy was at work, I enlisted the help of two community support officers in a search of his flat, with me instructing the pair of them to pay a particular focus to that one corner of the room. About ten minutes later, after pulling up a loose section of carpet, one of the PCSOs called me over to a gap in the floorboards and asked me,

Is this what you're looking for? It was the little pink book. In a weird way, I was actually quite excited to see what was in it. A lot of criminals try to re-establish connections when they leave prison, so there was a slim chance that there might be details of other active predators in that book, which would get me a massive pat on the back if I turned it into my bosses. But if I'm being honest, nothing could have prepared me for what was in that book. About one third of it was filled with incredibly detailed drawings of school-aged children,

all bound and gagged by various means and in various positions. Much like the horses Jimmy drew, the pictures of the children were shockingly detailed and lifelike. Their little faces were either twisted up with pain or fear, or they stared back at their creator with wide, frightened eyes. But unlike the horse drawings, which were so unexpectedly impressive that they verged on awe-inspiring, these drawings made me feel sick to my stomach. It was like I was holding a piece of radioactive material or something. Now I know that might sound a bit melodramatic to some people, but that's what it felt like to me.

It was like I could feel all this hideousness just radiating off the book. Like I wanted to seal it up and burn it and bury its ashes under 20 feet of earth. Whoever drew those pictures was a very, very sick person, and the idea that I'd been sharing cups of tea with him made me want to take a shower in hot bleach. I only got a good look at about two or three of the drawings before I slammed the book shut. My heart was pounding as I asked the support officers to hang around for a bit, then I gave my boss a call to let him know what we'd found. Seeing those drawings was probably one of the darkest moments of my entire life, but then knowing that I'd secured my evidence was one of the highlights and it came with an adrenaline rush to match. Within the hour, regular uniformed officers were dispatched to Jimmy's place of work and he was placed under arrest. Then he was promptly transported back to prison to await the decision of the parole board. Once it was determined that he breached his license, the board announced that he'd remain in prison for the remaining 15 years

of his sentence. And that, thank Christ, was the end of my working relationship with Jimmy. Back at 45 Division, which is what we called HQ, it was pats on the back all around for yours truly. I was the office favorite for about two weeks after because it felt like we'd achieved something really significant. Everyone, the parole board included, felt that Jimmy was almost certainly on the path to re-offending, and if he kept us all fooled and then allowed back into society, he could have done untold damage to any number of children, including those of the people we worked with. I think that's why the result was received so well. I'd diffused a ticking time bomb that could have blown up in just about anyone's face. In a way, that goes right back to why I joined the probation service in the first place.

I'd found what I was good at, and what I was good at officer in the state of Utah for nine years, 4 months, and 18 days. It was nothing like working as a correctional officer, but after a bad car accident in the spring of 97, it was one of the few options open to me that didn't include medical retirement. A lot of guys told me to take the medical, buy a boat, and start up that charter service idea that had served as a pipe dream for so many years, but frankly, that felt a little too much like giving up. On top of that, there was the fact that if I worked nine more years, I'd be entitled to a full pension and I'd have all my treatment covered by the state. It was that last thing which proved to be the deciding factor. So instead of walking off into the sunset with a big check and a bum leg,

I joined the Utah Department of Corrections as a parole officer. I worked hundreds, possibly even thousands of caseloads prior to my eventual retirement and sadly, I think I only had a handful of stories that might interest you. Being a parole officer wasn't exactly action-pack, and it's always laughable when the movies present us as these badass bounty hunters when really, we're mostly just slow horses with a motley collection of dysfunctional appendages, with a few exceptions obviously. I think I only had 3 or 4 major incidents in my whole PO career, but the incidents I did experience were just as intense, if not more so, than anything I experienced as a corrections officer. Including the time that I almost lost my life to a man who, in another life, could have been a cousin or a nephew of mine, maybe even a son.

I first met Sean at the trailer park that he was calling his temporary home following his release from federal prison. The trailer park was part of the halfway home scheme that we were sort of running due to budget constraints, and all that extra freedom meant only the most promising of parolees got to stay there. And then, out of all these promising parolees that ended up calling the park home for a while, I'd swear that Sean was the most promising of them all. He was a former marine flight mechanic. Two tours of Iraq before the crap really hit the fan, but even so, the base he operated at got pummeled by insurgent rockets and mortars, I remember him saying, meaning that he came back stateside with a nasty case of what he called the shakes. I guess officially speaking, whatever Sean

suffered from would be categorized as PTSD, but for whatever reason, he never called the shakes. I guess officially speaking, whatever Sean suffered from would be categorized as PTSD, but for whatever reason, he never called it that. He just said that he got the shakes sometimes when he got to thinking about things too hard. He tried all kinds of medication, all kinds of therapy, but nothing ever worked. Then one day, out of pure self-destructive desperation, Sean smoked a bowl of meth at a party on Memorial Day weekend and found that it actually stopped his shakes. I don't know how something like meth came to have that kind of effect on him. If anything, I'd have assumed that it made his shakes worse, but surprisingly, it had the opposite effect, I guess. He said it focused him like a laser, but brought the tremors down to almost

nothing. Having discovered what he thought was the miracle cure for his shakes, Sean starts using a little meth here and there, just whenever things got a little too rough, he said. Then he discovered it made him better, shiny and new as he put it, and much more able to deal with all the bullcrap of being freshly discharged from the Marine Corps with nothing to show for it but a glorified severance check. He starts doing more and more, a little before work and a little after work. Then he's doing it in his free time, and then all alone whenever he was craving. But then this obviously left Sean with a problem. One day he found that he wanted to smoke more meth than he

had money, but he also really didn't want to be that depraved drug addict who spends his last few dollars on drugs. So instead, he goes to a meth cook, asks what he needs to cook him a batch, and then goes around either stealing or buying everything on his little shopping list. He helps the cook with the batch, makes a bunch of mental notes, and then starts with cooking his own, for purely personal use, keeping the batches as small as possible. But just like when he first started smoking, the amount that he was cooking got bigger and bigger, until eventually, he couldn't hide it anymore. Cops raided his cookhouse, Sean got arrested, and then he spent the next 12 years

in a federal prison. He'd have gotten way longer if it wasn't for his military background and his behavior as an inmate was impeccable. Had it not been for that, there's no way that he'd have been paroled nine years into the 18 the judge gave him. But I'm also guessing, in front of the judge, he showed a hell of a lot of enthusiasm for putting his life in order, because that sure is how what he showed me that first time that I met him at the trailer park. I thought that he was going to be the easiest case that I've ever dealt with. He was itching to get his life back together. And every time I stopped by his place or we met for bacon and eggs at a nearby diner, his enthusiasm seemed to have only have grown.

A few months go by, Sean's well on his way to getting all the early release recommendations he needs, including my own, and I stop by his place for a pre-arranged meeting, only to find that he's not there. I figured something must have been wrong for him to just pull a no-show like that and unlike some other cases I've worked, I didn't assume that he was trying to duck me or play games after building up a little trust. I tried giving him a call on his cell and the first time the call went through, but when it suddenly and abruptly went to voicemail, I started to get this sinking feeling. Best case scenario, he was running late, driving back to the trailer park and didn't want to risk getting pulled over by talking on his cell. But then the next time that I tried to call him, it went straight to voicemail. No dial tone, like he quickly just turned off his cell between calls.

Again, I get that sinking feeling. I liked Sean. I had high hopes for him. So the idea of him messing up all of his progress and ruining his chances of getting those recommendation letters, it made me feel like a scared parent. I didn't just leave right away. I walked back and forth in the dirt in front of his trailer hoping to catch one of Sean's neighbors. He'd mentioned borrowing one of their trucks to get to and from his job, so I moseyed on around the trailer park, hoping that I might be able to talk to someone who knew him. I knocked on the doors of a few trailers, got no answer, and then finally, the last one I visited had someone home. I asked if they knew Sean, and they said yes. Then when I asked where he was,

they started giving it the usual, whose business isn't of yours kind of thing. I explained that I was his PO and that he wasn't in any trouble and I wanted to know where he was because I was worried about him. It wasn't like him to miss a face to face, I wasn't making up some story to get him to talk and I'd appreciate it very much if he could do me a solid and just tell me what he knew. I remember the guy gave me this look like, you really don't know, do you? And then told me. Sean's mom died. He took it real bad.

An owner of one of the other trailers was out there drinking beer with him for a while, but Sean was pacing back and forth making phone calls, and next thing you know know a truck pulls up, Sean jumps in the back and then off he goes. Ain't seen him since. I asked him how long ago this was and my heart sank when the guy said, Tuesday, so four days now give or take. Four days?

Sean could have been halfway across the country by then and if he'd gotten some kind of terrible news, there was no telling what he'd retreated to in order to cope. I couldn't blame him, but as I got back into my truck I was praying to God, please just stick to booze Sean, stick to booze if you gotta. The last thing I wanted to do was call it in to my superiors then and there. If it were some scumbag who had been caught with some kiddie pictures on his computer, I'd have come down on him like a stampeding steer, but as I've said already, Sean was far from some pervert scumbag.

If I came down hard on him over one missed appointment, especially when it was due to a death in the family, I'm not sure that I've been able to look myself in the mirror for a while. And the trouble was, leaving him to his own devices for too long, not to mention in a state of grief, he might not pass a urine test. Then if that happened, he was definitely going back to jail to serve out the remainder of the sentence there instead of doing it on parole. Obviously, Sean wasn't my only parolee during that period, so it's not like I could devote all my time to searching for him. But over the next few days, I kept calling his cell phone, kept stopping by his trailer, and most importantly, gave my cell number to the neighbor that I spoke to and asked him to keep his eyes peeled for me.

A few days later, I get a call in my cell, and it's the neighbor, saying that he's just seen Sean and a few others entering his trailer. I thanked him for the info, but before I hung up, he warned me that they didn't look like the kind of folks who woke up bright and early for Sunday service, and that I might want to be careful if I was looking to arrest anyone. I definitely wasn't looking to make any arrests. I didn't even have the power to, but I did want to make sure that it was okay, and if these friends of his wanted to put themselves in the way of that, then that might pose a very big problem for myself.

I drove over to the trailer park as quickly as possible, hoping to catch Sean before he did anything that he'd live to regret. When I arrived, all the curtains of his trailer were drawn and music was so loud that I could hear it as I turned into the park and was thumping out of some kind of sound system inside. Just to be safe, I put on the bulletproof vest that I kept in my trunk and then headed up to the front door to the trailer. I had to hammer on it just to be heard over the racket and when someone opened up the door, not only was it not Sean, but they didn't look too pleased to see me. Standing in front of me when the door opened up was a guy

that looked like his daddy was Bigfoot and his mommy was a skeleton. And to him, with all of the narcotics in his system, I guess I'd look like the devil himself. He slams the door closed, and even over the loud music you could hear him scream, it's the cops. At first, I found the guy's reaction to be kind of funny. Sure, I was wearing a vest and I had a gun on my hip, but I wasn't a cop, so I guess it was halfway to bringing a smirk to my lips as I peered around to a window and tried to peer through a crack in the curtain. Having these guys throw all their drugs in the chemical toilet would have most definitely been in their best interest but

the fact was I wasn't there in that capacity. I was only there to talk to Sean, everything else was secondary and if they knew how understanding I was prepared to be, then I'm not sure that they'd have reacted so frantically at all. I started to call out that I'm not a cop, relax, I'm just here to speak to Sean for a minute. But it didn't seem to do any good. I could hear the people inside scrambling around, cursing, saying things about the cops being outside. I repeated myself again, and that's when the first bullet smashed through the trailer siding. It all happened so quickly that at first I wasn't quite sure what had happened, or maybe I did and I just didn't want to think that it was happening. I backed up upon hearing the sound, but the shot came through way below eye level so I didn't see

the bullet hole or realize what was happening until the next few shots came through way below eye level so I didn't see the bullet hole or realize what was happening until the next few shots came through. I remember throwing myself back off into the little wooden deck that led to the door, then feeling almost certain that I'd broken something when I landed on my back and shoulders. I think I must have knocked the wind out of myself too because there was a second there where I was scared that I'd been shot. But after seeing no entry wounds on the vest and seeing no blood on my shirt underneath, I pulled my sidearm and did the only thing I could, emptied the entire clip into the front of the trailer. There wasn't any time to consider the implications, I just had to scare them into keeping their heads down long enough for me to get back to my truck. I got there, but just in time to have someone shatter the windscreen with

a well-aimed shot. Someone in the trailer had a solid view of the driver's seat, meaning there would be no getting in it or getting out of there without taking a bullet. I had to crawl underneath and then out the other side, taking cover behind one of my truck tires. I then reloaded, dialed 911 on my cell phone and then just laid there, aiming out towards the trailer hoping nobody came out the door in pursuit of me. Luckily someone else had heard the shot so uniformed officers arrived at least a minute or two faster than they would have from my call alone,

but by the time they did get there, they noticed what I had around the same time I made my own 911 call, that Sean's trailer was on fire. The officers and myself that arrived figured everyone inside would have ran before the flames got too bad, but from the perspective of those inside, they had no idea what they were facing. In their minds, if they ran outside, they'd have been shot to pieces, but stay inside and try to put the flames out and they stood a fighting chance. So, as myself and the officers started moving on the trailer, someone inside pulls one of the curtains back, but the silhouette they made, including the gun in their hand, it made them look like one of the curtains back, but the silhouette they made, including the gun in their hand, it made them look like one of those training targets, and for the officers who arrived as my

backup, they were just as easy to shoot. What followed was another prolonged gunfight and as more shots went into the trailer, the less those inside were able to put the flames out. The fire grew, the shooting died down, and in the end, the fire department arrived far too late to save those inside from burning to death. I honestly don't know if any of them were still alive by the time they got there, but by the time the flames were out, everyone inside were either burned to a crisp, or died of smoke inhalation, or a grisly combination of the two. It took the county coroner a hell of a long time to figure out who was who, as well as the exact cause of each person's death. Only one person died by gunshot, and that person was Sean.

The coroner's ID'd him through his Marine Corps dental records, but determined that he'd been dead before the flames got to him. There was no telling whose bullets were the ones to put him down, either mine or the cops that showed up after, but deep down, I think I know. I think I killed the one person that didn't really need my help. I think Sean would have gone through the grief of his mom's death. He might have gone off the rails, but I think her ghost would have dragged his butt back on them again. I think I should have called in that first no-show meeting as in when it happened. And that way, he could have gotten picked up long before I had the opportunity to empty my pistol into his trailer. He might have gone back to prison, maybe for a hell of a long time too, but at least he'd still be alive.

There was a phrase I'd heard long ago that never made much sense until that day. The road to hell, they say, is paved with good intentions. To be continued... 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.

The most interesting man I ever met in my life used to work as a tunneling contractor. I first met him when I was assigned as his parole officer, when he was released 23 years into a 45-year prison sentence, and I quickly recognized him as one of the good ones. To me, there are two types of parolees. The ones that are going to give me problems, and the ones that aren't. They come in all shapes and sizes and characters, but you can always put them into one of those two categories, and you can always tell which one they're going to be from the second that you lay eyes on them. I figured Mike would be the troublesome kind, not so much because what he'd done, so much as who he'd done it to. Back in the late 80s, Mike worked as a tunneling engineer for a

major construction company in the southwest. He worked on tourist attractions, mining and waste management sites, even an R&D facility for some pharmaceutical company, and he made great money from it too. But then, one day, Mike's boss tells him that all the work is drying up and that his services would no longer be required. And this leaves Mike in one hell of a pickle, because not only does he have a mortgage,

credit card, and car payments to keep up with, but almost a seven month long crash into the regional construction business meant that he couldn't get so much as a callback from any other company, let alone a sit down with a CFO or a workable contract. Mike's starting to think that he might really be screwed. But then, right as the prospects of defaulting and foreclosure are starting to loom large, he gets a call from a guy asking if he's free to do some work. Mike said it was like a bolt from the blue, that he was about ready to dig a tunnel to China if he got paid enough to keep the repo men away. But then the more he talked to the representative of his potential new employer, the more he talked to the representative of his

potential new employer, the more he realized it wasn't going to be like any other job. Mike offered to send over his license number, insurance, and bonding information, something which 95% of employers will ask before even discussing a project with a potential contractor. But the guy calling didn't seem interested. Then, in a way that would have been creepy if it wasn't offering work in such a friendly manner, the guy calling told Mike that they were familiar with his work and had done their due diligence and were ready to offer him the job once he'd signed a confidentiality agreement. In all the years Mike had been digging and blasting tunnels, no one had ever asked him to sign anything resembling a confidentiality or non-disclosure agreement, and so right away he figured this particular job was going to be different.

But when he heard what the rate of pay was going $800, which, as any contractor will tell you, is a solid amount, especially during those first 5-10 years of trading. But the job Mike was being offered, by the guy who didn't seem to care if he was legit or not, was $2,000, cash in hand, at the end of every single day. Mike said it was like a kiss on the cheek on one side and a slap in the face on the other. $2,000 a day was good money, but in cash, every day, it was way too good to be true. But at the same time, Mike wasn't in the position to turn his nose up at that kind of money, so instead of flat out refusing, he thought that he'd play along, see what the job entailed, and then make a definite decision at a later date. A few days later, the guy calls him back and tells him to drive out to the parking lot of some diner out near Columbus, New Mexico, but he's to get there at 10 p.m. Mike shows up when he's supposed to, thinking that the job is going to be at the diner,

but instead, he shows up to find a whole crew of guys standing around in the cold, up when he's supposed to, thinking that the job is going to be at the diner. But instead, he shows up to find a whole crew of guys standing around in the cold and, when he gets out of his car and identifies himself, someone with an authoritative air about them tells him to wait with the others. And sometime later, a long Greyhound-style bus shows up and Mike correctly assumes that they'll be traveling to the work site. But what he didn't expect was for everyone to be given their very own blindfold. Obviously this makes everyone pretty nervous but they're reminded of the pay and that they can walk away at any time they want.

The only condition is that they wear the blindfolds when traveling to and from the work site. Mike said a couple of guys actually walked back to their cars and drove away, which in all fairness is exactly what he should have done too. But like we've already covered, he had his plan laid out so he got onto the bus, put on his blindfold and then waited to be told to unmask. Mike said the bus must have traveled down a highway for a while because the ride was pretty smooth, but then that all changed when they turned down what was obviously some kind of side or dirt road. The journey continued for a little while, then the bus came to a stop,

but then instead of being allowed to take off their blindfolds, Mike and company were let off the bus, still blindfolded, then walked all the way into some large building before being allowed to de-mask. Mike said that the inside looked like a warehouse that had been gutted of shelving before all the floor paneling had been ripped up. Someone had already gotten to work digging a pretty deep hole. They just had to wait for the engineers to get there before really opening up the tunnel. Mike said that aside from the real secretive nature of it all, it was a very professional operation. Whoever wanted the tunnel dug had all the right materials and machinery, they just didn't have the expertise. Before they got to work, someone asked why all the secrecy and the group was told that it was a decision from corporate.

They operated in a viciously competitive market and so certain security measures had to be taken to ensure their employer maintained an advantage. For the most part, this answer seemed to satisfy, but Mike said that there was still a handful, himself included, that had a feeling what they were doing wasn't strictly legal. And he was right. Mike said that he made close to 30 grand before one morning, as the bus rolled back into the diner's parking lot just before dawn, a bunch of federal agents ambushed the bus, dragged everyone out, and arrested them on the spot. It turns out their task had been to dig a tunnel under the border with Mexico, and that their employers had been the Juarez drug cartel. And in light of

that, Mike and the rest of the guys that he'd worked with were hit with a ton of different charges, big ones too, some of which implicated them as active members of an international drug smuggling operation. He got 45 years. But that's not really the story that I want to tell you today. You see, as crazy as that story is, it's not the most frightening one Mike ever told me. This one occurred during his first week in federal prison when he found himself a very small and very new fish dropped into some very dark and stormy waters. Mike said that the first week or so in prison was the most terrifying of his entire life.

He'd spent a long time in jail that all counted towards time served, but being bused to a federal lockup was when he finally gave up hope that he might somehow be able to appeal on some of the charges. The prosecution painted him as some hardened cartel operative who had put the nation's security at risk in exchange for personal gain. All the cash he earned was seized and he liquidated all of his assets to buy the best defense attorneys he could afford. But it was no good. And when his cell door closed shut on that first night in prison, it took everything in Mike's power not to break down and weep. You gotta remember, he was only 24 at the time of his arrest, 25 by the time he got to federal prison I'm almost 60 writing this now and looking back on 25, you're basically still half a kid

Mike, had to have been that young to have gotten himself involved in such a harebrained scheme to begin with But as even someone with such a strong inclination towards law and order, I can't say Mike's punishment entirely fit the crime. Mike was scared, but he wasn't a dope. He knew what he'd have to do to survive, and that was to get into the good graces of a pre-established group to gain safety in numbers. He did so as quickly as he could and was told his timing was perfect because anyone who showered alone became a target for Black Betty. Betty wasn't the guy's first name. His last name was Bettany or something like that and he wasn't called Black because he was an African American. He got that part of his nickname because he scared the living crap out of people. He was just shy of 7 foot tall, I heard, but a lean two bucks

and change. He was mean, he could fight, but the worst thing was that every so often, Black Betty got a taste for his fellow convicts. If you were in with a bunch of guys, you could shower together and although Black Betty sometimes followed and just stood there, watching, he didn't make a move on anyone. But then if you weren't with anyone, and you were one of the stragglers who showered alone, Black Betty would follow them in, and take them, as he said. Mike said that he didn't shower for days, not until he and his new buddies decided to head down to the showers together. When the time came, Mike said that he was hugely looking forward to

it as he had a bad case of stink ass and underarms that smelled like hot death. But when it came to heading to the shower block, Mike was told that he was going alone. At first he thought it was some kind of joke, but it wasn't. His new buddies, who all of a sudden weren't acting very much like his buddies anymore, were deadly serious. He was going to go first, and he was going to go alone. And if he had anything else in mind, he could expect not to survive the night. Mike said he was stunned, that it felt like a nightmare that he was going to wake up from at any moment. Only he didn't wake up, because it wasn't a nightmare. It was actually happening, and he was going to wake up from at any moment. Only he didn't wake up, because it wasn't a nightmare.

It was actually happening, and he was screwed. He said he needed to take a shower. Not wanted to, needed to. So, he waited until a few other new fish headed down looking scared and alone, and hoped that he would get lost in the crowd. And when I say crowd, I mean maybe two or three other convicts. Aware of the threat Black Betty posed, everyone tried to wash up as quickly as they could, but it wasn't fast enough. Betty had seen them walking off to the showers and had followed, soap and towel in hand. As soon as he appears, everyone starts rushing off, but Black Betty doesn't pay them any mind.

Instead, he's got his eyes fixed on old Mikey Boy, and when he tries to slip past like the rest of the new fish, Black Betty blocks his way. Betty backs him all the way up to the back walls of the shower block saying all this stuff that's making Mike's skin crawl, warning him that if he fights back, it's only going to make things worse. Mikey's thinking that there's no way that he's about to just give up and give in, but at the same time, there's no way that he's going to win a one-on-one fight with Black Betty. But even so, the best option was to give it his best shot, and if Betty killed him in the process, well, there were worse fates than death. Mike's back was right up against the wall, and he was about to tell his would-be violator that he'll die before he turns around, when he sees this flash of movement over Betty's shoulder.

Suddenly, someone hooks a towel around Betty's neck, and then jerks it back to send him slamming backwards into the tiled floor of the shower block. The impact cracked Betty's head open and while his eyes were still rolling in their sockets, the guys that had ordered Mike to shower alone appeared and stuck black Betty so full of holes that he looked like a blood sponge by the time they were done. Before they departed, Betty's killers told Mike that, and I quote, you didn't see anything. Which is exactly what he told the warden when he was dragged into his office later on that day. He was so traumatized by what he'd seen that the warden and his top guys had no trouble believing the story. They knew it wasn't Mike who stabbed Betty over a hundred times, they just didn't know who did. When Mike wandered back onto the wing, the first people who wanted

to talk to him were his buddies. They showered him in smokes, contraband, and all kinds of commissary. Mike said that they even had a plastic cup full of prison wine waiting for him to glug down out of sight of the guards. And long story short, they used him as bait. Betty wouldn't go for just anyone. Mike was his type and it was either risk him or keep everyone at risk, because Betty wasn't just a habitual predator, he was an opportunistic one too. While Betty was around, no one was safe, but with Betty gone, Mike amounted to a cell block hero. It was his arrival that had given them a golden opportunity to take Betty down, as they knew that Mike was the kind of new fish that Betty would have his eye on. The thing was, Mike's buddies knew that let him in on the plan, and there was a chance that he'd be too scared to go through with it. And so, a little coercion seemed in order. Mike stayed with the group of guys for a long time

before later being transferred to a medium-security prison called Three Rivers. It was there that he served out the rest of his sentence, and luckily, there was no one like Black Betty around to terrorize the inmates. To me, the idea of being used as bait to lure out a human animal is one of the most frightening concepts I can possibly think of. But while I've heard that ignorance is bliss, I think not knowing you're the bait might be even more terrifying. What's worse, Betty's killers floated the idea of only beginning their ambush once he was, shall we say, occupied with Mike. That way they could ensure that he'd be suitably distracted but it also meant condemning Mike

to a truly nightmarish fate. Thankfully for him, they decided that they couldn't live with that, not by unanimous decision anyways, but they came to that decision all the same. Last time I spoke with him, Mikey was driving for Uber up in Dallas. He said he had a girlfriend and that she had a kid and that he felt more and more like a father by the day. He's come a long way since digging tunnels in Mexico, and he's come a long way since being used as bait for a monster. This happened about five years ago while I was living with my parents. I remember that I was ill when it happened.

I think I had a cold or a fever or something. I was lying in bed in the morning not feeling well. It was about 8 a.m. when I heard my mother call out to me that I'm going to work now. If you get any sicker, give me a call. Back then we had a cat and it was just me and the cat at home. That cat kept coming in and out of my room and was really annoying. I couldn't get back to sleep. I had had enough of the cat so I got out of bed and put him out of the room and just shut the door. Because my parents house is really old, if you don't lock the door then the cat knows that he can just push against it to get back into my room, so I locked it. It was a

simple bolt lock. I got back into bed, but I couldn't get to sleep as my body felt very heavy and very cold. My vision was shaking too and I'm not sure if this makes sense, but I can't think of a better description. I felt very strange. I wanted to call my mom to tell her that I was getting worse but I couldn't get a phone signal for some reason. I was starting to get more and more anxious and that anxiety grew when I heard my cat meowing outside my bedroom door. It was like a low meow, this sort of maw, you know. There was something strange about that meow though. It played on my mind for a few minutes and then I figured out what was wrong. The meow sounded like it was coming from a high place, not a low place. It sounded like the cat

was at head height rather than foot height, and this really scared me. I didn't know how it could be possible. There was no way that the cat could be on something that high. We didn't have any furniture near the door. I kept silent and didn't go anywhere near that door, and after a while I heard my mother's voice. Are you okay? I came back from work because I was worried about you. It was my mother's voice, I'm sure of it, but there was something just wrong enough about the voice that caused me to mistrust it. There were some subtle differences like tone and word choice, something that was slightly different than usual. Another thing that didn't add up was the fact that she had only left for work about two hours ago, so why would she be back? If she wanted to check

on me, she would have just waited until lunchtime. I only had the flu or something, it wasn't like a life-threatening situation, and I didn't like it. I knew something was wrong. The way the cat sounded like it was at head height and the way my mom sounded so much like my mom but off was enough to make me frightened. I was so cold that my teeth were chattering. I stared at the door, and my body felt too heavy to move. I was just sitting there, cold and scared. I knew something was about to happen before it did. The door handle began to violently turn, over and over. The lock was so old that it wouldn't take much to break that door down, and my teeth kept chattering and I could even see my breath fog in front of me.

My body stiffened. After a few moments my teeth stopped chattering and I was silent. Then, I felt that presence that was on the other side of the door had left. Whatever that something was, was gone. I was able to move again, so I reached for my smartphone and called my mom. The signal was back. I was really scared and potentially blubbering as I asked her, mom, did you just come home right now? She said, what are you talking about? I'm still at work. Are you all right? I said I was just feeling worse and I had a bad dream. I stayed in my room until she came back during her lunch break and I was utterly terrified. Sadly, when my mother came home,

she found out that our cat was dead, lying at the foot of my door. There were no visible injuries to the cat and the poor thing wasn't ill or old. He had been running around happily only a few hours ago. He was just lying dead there on his side. I wonder if he was taken by that something that was trying to get into my room. I wonder what might have happened to me if I thought that it truly was my mom on the other side of the door. And I think my cat may have saved my life. I have looked for an explanation of what happened to me for years and I'd like to share with you some of my findings. It seems as if pets aren't the only victims of whatever visited my house that day. Demons target the young, the elderly, or the sick. They go for the weakest of the house. And this caused ill-prone people to become scapegoats in

the past. There are suggestions that on some level people subconsciously realize that there is nothing that they own to ward off evil spirits and misfortune, and that is why they end up wanting a pet. If a pet prematurely dies, it can mean that there is something demonic lurking. I guess that's the reason why witches kept black cats. I don't know. These are just my theories based on my terrifying experience. We'll see you next time. 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. This happened when I lived in Hachioji. I was in university at the time.

I moved to Tokyo from Chiba. I lived in three different places when I moved to Tokyo, and this experience takes place in the second apartment I moved into. I found an apartment I liked. The building was pretty old, but it had just been renovated. The structure and layout of the apartment was really unique, so as soon as I viewed it, I expressed my interest to the realtor and then I contracted it. I had a girlfriend and she moved in with me. Now let me just explain the layout of that apartment.

It was on the second floor of the building and in the corner. It was strange and cool because I had my own personal staircase. It was connected to my apartment. There was also a parking spot just below this private staircase which made life easy. If you open the front door, you'll see the toilet on your right and the kitchen just down the hall behind it on the right. There are stairs on the left and the entrance to the living room next to them. If you head up the stairs, you'll find a door leading to the attic, and I really like the attic. So, like I said, the floor plan was pretty unusual, but it was cool. However, shortly after moving in, the weird goings-on began. My girlfriend loved the place as much as I did. One day, we were sat in the lounge drinking booze, watching some TV, and then we both heard

the sound of the door handle. My girlfriend instantly went to panic mode and she was super freaked out. I tried to laugh it off and said something like, chill out, it's probably just the wind. I'd be lying if I said that my heart wasn't beating as fast as it possibly could in my chest. I was just trying to stay calm and composed. It definitely sounded like the door. A couple of seconds later, the sound came again. This time, she started to really panic and she was close to tears. What kind of man or boyfriend would I be if I didn't go and check it out? So, I told her to wait there while I went to go see where the noise was coming from. I was bricking it, it was really stressful. I came out of the lounge and faced the front door and I saw something. I saw what was causing the noise. Before my eyes, the front door handle was

moving up and down, like if there was someone outside trying the door to gain entrance. Panic had settled in for me now as the door handle rattled and the door moved. It sounded like there was some real force behind it. I realized the door wasn't locked and as that thought came to me, the door flew open. I expected to see some masked knife-wielding maniac, but there was no one out there. That particular fear slowly fizzled away, and I called out to my girlfriend. I don't worry, it's just some garbage blown by the wind outside. It's making some noise. I lied to her in an attempt to reassure her. Despite no one being behind that door, I still felt terrified. The things which are unseen are the most frightening, I think. The things which defy logic and reason are truly the most frightening.

I decided to try and forget about it and carry on. Kinda drink away my problems. I'm not that good at drinking. Is that the right way to phrase it? I'm kind of weak. I get drunk easily and always end up feeling sick. And that day was really strange though. I didn't drink much but I began to almost hyperventilate, like my breathing got fast. I felt hazy and dull. It was as if I was looking through a yellow filter. Everything had this yellowish tinge to it, and something was definitely wrong. I felt as if I would either faint or die. No, I'm not being melodramatic. Things escalated really quickly.

I sat there panicking silently and internally until I could bear it no longer. I turned to my girlfriend and asked through labored breathing for her to call an ambulance. She called and the ambulance arrived and I was taken to the hospital. While in hospital, I was informed that I had suffered from hyperventilation, which they assumed was likely brought on by some sort of stressor. He said that my symptoms had already begun to subside. And as you know, I was just at home sitting around drinking so how on earth did I suddenly start to stress myself out? I didn't feel stressed anymore so I just asked to leave and we called a taxi to take us home. Well, I was pretty concerned and that hadn't ever happened to me before so I called my mom and asked her opinion. I'll digress for just a second and

tell you about my mom. She has always believed that she has had the power to sense the presence of spirits. I mean, I don't think that I have such an ability. I'm half dumb. I didn't expect her to say what she said though. She says, That sounds like the early symptoms of possession, so you need to be really careful. And that really creeped me out. The hyperventilation turned out to be a

regular thing. I learned how to manage it a bit better with each bout, but I decided that I didn't want to live in that apartment anymore. Something was terribly wrong there. I tried to get out as soon as possible. My girlfriend was in agreement as she wanted to leave too, and she could see that something was affecting me. I tried to stay out of that apartment as much as I could. As soon as my classes finished I would try and find other things to do outside to keep me busy. I would go and play the slots now and then. I was never interested in the slots before and I don't play them anymore. It was a strange sort of lived hobby. After that I would go and pick my girlfriend up from her

office job and then head home. About a month went by from the incident with that door and then one evening we came back to the apartment. Like I said before there was a spot right near the stairs which I always liked to park in. However when we got back there was a bunch of people in the parking lot. I noticed that one of them was a bunch of people in the parking lot. I noticed that one of them was a monk and all the others were wearing mourning attire. There were bouquets of flowers and lit incense sticks. It was a pretty strange sight to see. My girlfriend and I felt a little panicked. We parked away from them in a different spot and headed over to ask what the hell was going on. And the monk then smiled at me and replied,

Oh, don't worry. Things are going fine now. Please don't worry. I didn't understand. I asked him to explain exactly what he meant and then a woman in her 50s stepped forward. I think I can explain. My husband ended things here. I'm so sorry. And my mouth hung open. Apparently her husband had taken his life in our apartment only a few days before we moved in. And I was stunned, but I asked, why are you doing this now then? The monk then said that there was a shared belief that the woman's husband hadn't passed over but now, with the help of the mourners here today and the ritual that he had performed, he believed that man's spirit was now at peace.

I wasn't certain that I could trust if the spirit of that man was truly at peace. What I felt in those bouts of hyperventilation was incredibly profound levels of fear, the likes of which I didn't want to experience again. So despite the reassurances of the monk, I complained to the landlord and moved out. I am happy to say that the hyperventilation episode stopped instantly and my girlfriend and I live a much more comfortable life now. I heard this story from one of my mountain climbing friends. He is really into mountain climbing and has climbed and conquered many in his time and I'm part of the same club as he is. He told me about this one club that he did where he had to pay at this

parking spot a kind of toll to climb. He said that the guy who had paid took down his address and information in case of an emergency. He arrived at 8am which is way later than usual for him. He was climbing alone that day and he was preparing himself. The elevation was high but since he knew that he would be starting late, he decided before arriving that he'd spend the night at the summit. The guy who took payment from him told him that there was an unmanned cabin up there which he would be more than welcome to use. He liked that idea more than his tent. He felt like because of that, he could really take his time and enjoy the climbing experience.

He climbed to the summit without incident and took in all the gorgeous views. He was the only one at the summit and the cabin was empty. He brewed some coffee, looked out over the mountain at nature's splendor, and watched the sun set as evening arrived. It started to get darker and chillier, so he headed into the cabin. He brought some alcohol with him and had a little drink while preparing dinner and listening to the radio. He was really tired after dinner, drinking and hiking and all that, and he decided to head to bed and get some sleep so he could start his descent early in the morning. He turned off the lantern and the cabin was plunged into darkness.

He said that he had no issue falling asleep due to his tiredness. In the middle of the night, he awoke to a strange sound. It sounded like the door was rattling. It spooked him a bit because when he checked the weather forecast, it didn't seem like it was going to be a particularly windy night. He listened closely to the sound and soon realized that it wasn't the sound of the wind, it was something else. It sounded to him like the sound of someone trying the door and the sound of people walking around. You know when you are in the dark and you are groping for something, like the door handle, he said it sounded just like that. A quick look at his watch told him

that it was past 2am. He didn't think that another climber would be attempting the mountain at this time of night in the dark. Could there really be anyone out there that late? I know that some mountains are connected by ranges and you can hike or climb from one to another but that mountain wasn't like this. For one, you needed to pay the toll at the parking lot and secondly, there wasn't another mountain in the area. It was just one mountain with one climbing route. So he said based on what he knew and his experience, there should be no one out there. He said it was impossible and that terrified him. He lay in his sleeping bag shaking. He couldn't

summon up the courage to leave it, and he pretended to be asleep but kept his eyes slightly open, waiting and hoping the noise from outside the cabin door would stop or go away. His hopes weren't answered. After a few moments, he heard the sound of the door creaking open, and the sound was deafening. He said he was praying deep within his heart when he heard that sound. Sweat had begun to form on his brow, and his shaking showed no sign of subsiding. He opened his eyes slightly wider, and he said that he saw four figures by the open door, illuminated by the light of a shadowy moon. A boy, a girl, a man and a woman. They were wearing tattered and torn clothing. They carried no flashlights or lanterns with them and they

seemed to be completely used to the dark. They entered the cabin. My friend closed his eyes and prayed and prayed that they go away. He was terrified of this family. They defied all logic that he put his faith into. There was no way that they could be there, yet there they were. And now they were in the cabin with him. He heard footsteps creeping around the wooden flooring. They appeared to be looking for something. Agonizing seconds crawled by, and my friend stayed as still as he could to not alert them to his presence. Then, just as quickly as they had arrived, they left without conversation and without closing the cabin door. He said that as soon as he saw them go, he lost consciousness. I think he may have fainted through fear.

And as soon as he woke, he hurriedly threw all of his things into his bag and began his descent. I'm not sure if he checked if anything was missing or not, but that would have been one of the first things that I would have done. He got dressed and quickly prepped for the descent. He went down the mountain as fast as he could, and he was still terrified by his nightly visitors. He didn't want to see them in the day. There was something about that family that truly terrified him. When he got to the bottom, he spoke to the man at the toll booth and told him about his experience. He said it wouldn't have been right not to mention what happened.

He didn't care if it made him look dumb or scared. The toll booth guy told him that he was the only one on the mountain that night and that disturbed him. He wondered if he was visited by spirits. The tollbooth guy then said a few months back a family did go missing on that mountain and no sign of them had been found. Was it their spirits visiting him or was the family still living? I wonder if they were looking for some food or something and were drawn to the hut. Perhaps something happened to them and they have memory loss or something.

I don't know. My friend is convinced that the family that visited the cabin were spirits. He'll never forget that night in the cabin and all his climbs and hikes he has never experienced the paranormal again. This took place at the end of January. I work as a mountain ranger and after I had finished a sweep of the mountain, I was on my way back down to close the main gate. A strong northerly wind blew the powdery snow down below the left of the valley.

It looked like a miniature snowstorm. It was interesting, so I stopped and watched it from my vantage point. I noticed something close to that snowstorm, the figure of a person. They were standing there, watching the snowstorm too. Since it was getting late and cold, I went down to speak with them. I drew closer to the figure and as I did, I heard that whoever was there was talking. It sounded like someone was having a conversation. The person's voice was only audible during the pause of the wind's relentless howling. The figure was speaking to someone, I was sure of it. The only issue was that I couldn't see who it was they were speaking

to. I wondered if someone was hurt or lost and I got a little concerned. As I got closer I discovered that I recognized that person. The snow and lack of light had been obscuring my view. I knew that guy. He lived on my street. We used to be good friends at school. I called out to him. hey, what the hell are you doing out here? I was even laughing when I said it, and when I called out to him, he slowly turned to face me. He had a very sober and stern look on his face, as usual. Hey, what are you talking about? He replied to me. Huh? It looked like you were speaking to someone just then. I don't see anyone out here,

who are you talking to? Oh, I was just speaking to Shota. What? I stood there stunned for a moment or two. I didn't expect him to say that. Shota was his son, and sadly his boy passed away from childhood cancer at the age of seven just on the cusp of spring. The loss of his son hadn't taken a visible toll on him. In fact, that was the first time he mentioned his boy's name since the funeral. He didn't seem to have changed much after his son passed, except he was very quiet, to the point where he wouldn't say a thing. If we were ever at an event or party, he would just sit somewhere off to the side where he wouldn't say a thing. If we were ever at an event or party, he would just sit somewhere off to the side and keep quiet with a very solemn look on his face.

This wasn't that different from how he was before his son's passing. I never saw him grieve. Even at Shota's funeral, he kept silent. He was just watching as his poor wife bawled her eyes out. He looked up and appeared to glare at the attendees. He stared at us all like we were his enemies. Seeing him like that, I guessed that he was struggling internally with his emotions, or at least he didn't want to show everyone how he was feeling. It could have been pride or shame. I am guessing, though. Who am I to say how he was feeling.

It just looked to me like he was suppressing it all, burying his pain. It was nine months after the funeral that I saw him out in my mountain range talking to the biting wind. I was just out for a walk. I really like it here. I heard a voice and it felt as if I was being called by someone. I turned to see who it was and then I saw Shota, standing there. I listened to the man. I didn't know what else I could do. The wind died down and the whole mountain range fell eerily silent. It felt to me like time had stood still, like the mountains wanted to hear his story too.

Shota, you know what he said to me? Don't be mean to mom. I knew that he could be mean. My wife had overheard him scolding his son before he passed. He apparently kept telling the boy, don't cry. Nothing gets solved by crying. That should give you an idea of who he is. Everyone knows everything in small towns and word travels fast.

I know I can be a horrible person sometimes. I don't mean to be. I guess I can't help it sometimes. It sounded like he was truly complimenting the advice that his son gave him from beyond the grave. I looked away and then back and showed it was gone. He tilted his head back and stared upwards towards the sky. He kept on talking, unusually loud for him. It really worried me, you know, to be pleaded to and preached to by my son after I hadn't seen him in so long. I feel angry. I feel pity. I feel a lot of things right now. I don't know what to feel. He kind of just trailed off, but continued to stare at the sky. Grief,

what a terrible thing that is. You know me, I rarely cry but look at me now. I wonder when these tears will stop flowing. Tears were cascading down his face, white puffs of exhalation plumed with every sob, and the pain in that man's heart must have been unbelievable. Before long, his cheeks were wet. Then, the guy howled, literally from the pit of his stomach. It was as if it was all coming out of him. His tears were falling, and I watched as they slipped silently down through the snow.

Just off to the side of the spot I saw the tears. I saw two indentations in the powdered snow. One set, one set of footprints which undoubtedly could only belong to a child. Before long, a sharp gust signaled the return of the wind and it began to whip up again and the footprints were buried under the freshly blown snow. They were gone. They were gone physically, but I don't think he would ever forget them. They must have been burned into his memories. We both descended the mountain as the sun waned and when we got to the bottom and I saw him in the fluorescent light of the street lamps, I saw that stony, sullen expression begin to lift. I didn't see that expression again

after that, and I always think back to that experience when the first snow of winter begins to lift and the ice begins to thaw, just like the ice in his heart. This is a really unusual story that someone told me at college during a party. I found it quite intriguing and I'd like to share it with you. This guy's parents got divorced when he was just a baby and he was raised exclusively by his mother. Unfortunately, his mother couldn't afford to send him to nursery school, so he spent a lot of time home alone. That's a difficult situation, but it gets even more peculiar. One day, his mother came home earlier than usual from work and walked in on him talking to someone. She rushed over to her son, expecting to protect him from a possible intruder,

but what she saw was him speaking aloud to an empty apartment. He was smiling, giggling, and conversing with something unseen. As this little boy grew into the young adult who shared this story with me, he admitted that he doesn't remember much about those times, but he does recall that there was, in his words, something like a black shadow in the empty apartment with him. He mentioned that the black shadow was always around him. It may sound horrifying, but he assured me that it wasn't a frightening experience. To him, the shadow was like an extra parent. Whenever he was alone, he heard kind words from it, and he even mentioned that the shadow played with him.

Despite his father not being in the picture at the time, he seemed to consider the black shadow as a father figure, and his hopeful childhood heart was glad of the company. He shared that his mother started keeping a closer eye on him after this revelation, perhaps with a heavy heart, reflecting on her previous neglect. Eventually, he mentioned that the black shadow disappeared. And with a chuckle, he said that it didn't disappear for too long. He still sees the shadow from time to time, especially during important life events. Even though he doesn't see it every day, he feels its presence. As a child, he was never scared of dark shadowy areas, such as under the bed or open closets at night. He welcomed them, and to this day, he continues to look for the shadow and sometimes he sees it. Although he shared this story with a

smile on his face, I couldn't help but feel that the smile was tinged with a hint of loneliness. It's something to think about. Perhaps not all shadowy figures are malevolent. To be continued... We'll see you next time. I live in an apartment that was built in 1989. Now let me go over the layout of the apartment because it's important. It's a pretty standard place, but it has a loft. It's not that big, to be honest. It's a little cramped in there. I don't really like my loft. I find it kind of, I don't know, creepy. There's a certain sense of vulnerability that comes with having a loft.

I can't quite explain it but by the end of this story you'll know why they frighten me. It all started with a feeling one night after work and I haven't been able to shake this feeling. As soon as I come through the door, the first thing that I see is my loft. I get the feeling that sometimes something is watching me from up there. At first I just thought it was my tired mind conjuring up something. I've been tired before, you know, but this just felt different. Little did I know, a grudge was born that day. Now let me give you a point of view when you're in bed in the loft. If you naturally look out or down, you'd see the entryway leading to the kitchen. Now, naturally when I sleep, I sleep

on my side and therefore I face the entryway to the kitchen. Sometimes before sleep comes for me, I get the strong feeling that someone is looking at me, staring at me from down there in the entranceway. In uneasy times like that, I try to read or get myself to sleep as soon as possible. I turn off the lights so I don't get distracted, and I just use a little nightlight near my pillow to read my book. However, one night, a deeper sense of unease crept over me. I felt as if something was wrong. I heard a noise coming from down below, and the lights were off down there. I listened carefully, and it sounded as if someone was

exhaling. It definitely sounded like breathing. The second my mind understood that I was hearing breathing, I stayed deathly still. I was horrified. My heart began to pound in my chest. I thought that there was an intruder in my home. The air in the room felt heavy and oppressive. It enveloped me. It was all around me. The room seemed to grow darker and I felt strange.

I could still hear that noise. It resounded around the room below. It sounded closer. And beneath the loft, there was a blind spot, but I felt as if I pinpointed the spot where the breathing sound was coming from. Someone was down there, with their back against the wall. I managed to convince myself of that. When I imagined that, I shuddered,

drew my shoulders up to my chin, and held my covers tight. It was like a stalemate. I couldn't do anything, and the feeling that there was someone down there wouldn't go away. After a moment or two, the breathing sound suddenly stopped. I thought that it was all over, that I had imagined the whole thing, and relief washed over me. Then, in that moment, I heard a familiar sound, a sound that I had heard many times before. It was the instantly recognizable sound of someone climbing the ladder which leads to the loft. It sounded exactly like someone was coming up the ladder towards me. I was frozen with fear, and again I was unable to move. My mind was a mess of fear and worry as I heard the sound of someone climbing up. Clarity came to me swiftly though.

I guess this is what they call fight or flight. I made up my mind to deal with whoever was coming up to me. The sound continued and I was certain that I would see someone's head emerge in a matter of seconds. Those seconds came and went and although they felt as if though they were ours, the tension was unbearable. Nothing came into view and then the sound stopped. It stopped at the top of the ladder If someone was on that ladder, I should have seen them It sounded like whatever came up that ladder was now in the loft with me I didn't know what the hell was going on

I was sure that there was an intruder in the house And as soon as that thought crossed my mind My nightlight went out, and I was plunged into absolute darkness. Then, close to my ear, I heard three words that chilled me to the core. Who are you? I cannot remember much after this point. I guess I may have fainted from fright. It was morning when I opened my eyes again.

I don't know why, but I don't really feel the need to pursue or search for the meaning or explanation of this experience. I'm debating whether or not to move out, and I feel like it could just be the beginning of something. There is something definitely bad in my apartment and I don't think I'll be able to stand if something like that happens again. I heard this from my aunt. She worked in a hospital her whole career. As you can imagine, she has seen and experienced a lot. One night my aunt told me about when she first became a nurse. She said that the hardest part of her job was the night shift. The way she described her job and her duties made it sound like she was incredibly busy.

She had to make regular rounds all throughout the night and respond to patients and the sudden changes in their condition. She found it hard to adjust to the night shift since her body was used to sleeping while she would be working, but on top of that, she said that being largely alone in a dark hospital at night was very creepy. She felt like this as a new nurse and figured that she would just adjust eventually. One night she was making her rounds along the dark hospital ward. She would look in on the patients as she passed by to see how they were. When she arrived at one room on the third floor, she noticed a patient sitting upright, staring blankly at the window. The patient was an elderly man in his 80s.

The elderly man noticed that my aunt was standing in the doorway of his room watching him, so he called out, Is it Nozaki-san on night duty tonight? He never turned away from looking out the window, but since it was dark, my aunt could see his face in the reflection, and he seemed to be grinning. My aunt then encouraged him to lie back down on the bed and get some rest. It wasn't the first time that she had heard someone say that, since she started working the night shift she had heard the patients talking about this Nozaki-san. When someone

mentioned Nozaki-san it was usually to say something positive. One patient even said that Nozaki-san was much better than her at her job. My aunt wasn't the type to develop professional jealousy. She's honestly so placid and patient. But due to the patients constantly referencing this other doctor or nurse, she decided to make an effort to meet them. She looked through the logs and registers but couldn't find this Nozaki-san anywhere on the sign and sheets that

the doctors and nurses were supposed to sign when they started their shifts. As far as she knew, there was no one working on her ward by that name. But since she was still relatively new to her role, she guessed that there must have been some senior doctors and nurses working the ward that she hadn't met yet, so she didn't think much of it. After making sure the elderly man was back lying down in his bed, she returned to the nurse's station. A senior nurse was there and she and my aunt entered into some casual conversation. My aunt used that opportunity to bring up the enigmatic Nozaki-san. She said the senior nurse froze for a couple of seconds. She said that you could have

heard a pin drop on that ward and then turned to my aunt with a very troubled look on her face. Well, it's interesting that you mention Nozaki-san. She used to work here until about a year ago. She took her own life. This kind of thing comes up every once in a while for some reason. My aunt was floored by that. She said that it chilled her to the core but then she hoped that it was some kind of mistake. Perhaps the nurse had misheard her or something. So then my aunt brought up the conversation that she had with the elderly man. The nurse then

said, that happens here a lot lately. My aunt was surprised by this flippant and curt response. The nurse apparently had a stony expression as she said it. My aunt never forgot that exchange and since that night, she continued to hear the name Nozaki-san on the ward especially on her night shifts. It wasn't just the elderly man but also young male patients and even children. Every time she heard that name she felt uneasy. These patients were talking about someone who was no longer here as if though they were still working at the hospital. It didn't feel right. It was as if though they were still working at the hospital. It didn't feel right.

It was as if though they could still see Nozaki-san, as if she had never left. My aunt considered quitting her job because she was so creeped out by what was happening. But instead of quitting, she grew into her role and adapted to life on the ward. Soon, that uneasy feeling and the fear that she felt started to fade. She still heard the name Nozaki-san on the ward, but didn't get creeped out like she used to. She just thought to herself, oh, here we go again. She thought about it differently too. Since Nozaki-san was a senior nurse who used to work the wards, maybe her spirit is still present to watch over her patients. Maybe it didn't need to be creepy. She went forward trying to think of it as a positive thing. As I was listening to this story my aunt was telling me, I thought,

that's a nice story. Maybe all ghosts aren't really all that bad. I was smiling as my aunt continued. My aunt noticed my smile and she nodded at me and smiled back too and said, yeah, I was smiling like that too when I came to that realization. But then I found out something pretty disturbing. All the patients who asked me about Nozaki-san or if she was working that night after a couple of days, they would pass away. It seemed as if those seeing her or talking about her was an incredibly bad omen. It was a signal that the end was coming. I don't know.

There's something about that that seems so sinister. Like Nozaki-san was that hospital's grim reaper. Hey friends, thanks for listening. To be continued... 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.

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