The Lets Read Podcast - 300: HE TURNED INTO A MONSTER | 7 TERRIFYING True Scary Stories | EP 286

Episode Date: July 1, 2025

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about Thanksgiving & wild game warden cases. HAVE A STORY TO SUBMIT? [e-mail] FOLLOW ME ON - ►YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/c/letsreadofficial ► Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/letsread.official/ ♫ Music & Cover art: INEKT https://www.youtube.com/@inekt

The End I recently came across a collection of old letters at an estate sale in Edinburgh, Scotland. They were tucked away in a weathered trunk marked simply with the name C.E. Brady. At first glance I thought that they might be just routine correspondence from a different era. But as I began to read, I realized these letters told a very haunting story, and I thought the Let's Read audience might appreciate this chilling tale captured in these letters. I've transcribed them here exactly as I found them, and leaving it up to you to decide if they are simply the remnants of history, or maybe something more sinister.

As I said, what follows is a series of letters, exchanged between several authors during the spring and summer of 1891. They provide us with an insight into the life and times of one Charles E. Brady, a world-renowned big game hunter from Scotland, as well as those of his assistant, Jack Thompson. And they read as follows. Government House, Livingston, North Rhodesia, 20 April 1891. Sir, in service of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, it is with great respect for your extraordinary reputation that I take up my pen to write to you.

Your feats in the wild places of Africa are the stuff of fable, and your name is spoken with admiration in the halls of both London and the colonies. It is therefore to you that I must turn in a matter of utmost urgency in peril. Reports have reached me of grave disturbances in the Luwangwa Valley. A beast of no ordinary description has wrought havoc upon the local settlements, destroying crops, maiming livestock, and, lamentably, causing injury and loss of life among the native population. Those who have survived its wrath describe it as a lion of monstrous size and ferocity, though some accounts veer in the realm of the fantastic suggesting a creature beyond

the natural order. Such an affliction upon the people not only jeopardizes their lives and livelihoods, but also imperils the fragile stability of the region. I need not tell a man of your experience that fear and discontent left unchecked can fester into larger troubles. Given your unparalleled expertise in tracking and dispatching the great predators of the African wilderness, I implore you to lend your skill to this urgent endeavor. Your task, should you accept, will not be without danger, but I trust that your courage is equal to the challenge.

I shall see to it that you are provided with the capable retinue, adequate supplies, and whatever provisions you might require for the journey. I am fully prepared to compensate you handsomely for your efforts, but I hope that the opportunity to once more test your mettle against nature's fiercest adversaries while rendering a noble service to the crown might also weigh in your decision. I await your reply with great anticipation and remain, sir. Yours in earnest faith, Sir Arthur Ashbury, Governor of Northern Rhodesia. Camp on the Luang River, Northern Rhodesia. The 3rd of August, 1891.

My dearest Margaret, I hope this letter finds you well, my love, and that our little ones behaving themselves as I would expect. By now you'll have received my last note sent from the ship, but I am writing to you now from deep in the heart of Africa, where the work I've been called to undertake has finally been laid bare. Margaret, it is no simple task that keeps me from your arms but one of great peril, and if I succeed, one of great reward. I have come here to hunt a lion, but not just any lion.

The beast is a terror, Margaret, a man-eater, prowling the Luangwa Valley and laying waste to everything in its path. It has already taken the lives of several poor souls and left the villages in fear. It's no ordinary creature, I can tell you that much. The natives speak of it and whispers like it's a devil from the bush. And I won't lie to you, Margaret, it's dangerous work. This lion is clever and fierce, and the land here is nothing like I've ever seen before, wild and untamed. The nights are alive with the cries of beasts, and the air

is thick with the scent of earth and fire. But Mr. Brady and I have been given a team of trackers who know the terrain, and I've got my rifle in good working order. If I'm careful and keep my wits about me, I'll see this through. The rewards, Margaret, are far more than I could ever hope for back home. The governor himself has promised a handsome son for my service, enough to see us a good many winters and set the children on a fine path. This could be the

opportunity we prayed for, Margaret, the one that lifts us from the scrape of life and into something better. I promise you this, I will return. Four or five months at the most and I'll be back to you in the weans. Until then, I ask you to keep me in your prayers and know that every step I take, I carry your love with me. You're the strongest woman I know, Margaret, and it's your face that keeps me steady when the shadows grow long. Kiss the little ones for me and tell them their father will soon be home with the tales

of Africa and a heart full of love for them all. Yours now and always, Jack Camp on the Lawangua River, Northern Rhodesia, 5th of August, 1891 To His Excellency Sir Arthur Ashbury, Governor of Northern Rhodesia, Livingston, Your Excellency, I write to you with a heavy heart and grave tidings from the field. Upon receiving your summons and undertaking this expedition, I arrived with high hopes of quickly addressing the threat posed by the man-eating lion terrorizing the Luangwa Valley.

However, what I found at the appointed village of the Luangwa River was a scene of utter desolation. The village was silent, its only occupants the dead. The beast you spoke of had struck before my arrival, leaving a trail of destruction and grief. Several bodies lay scattered, showing unmistakable signs of a lion's ferocious attack. Among them, a regret to inform you was the man you appointed as my contact, a fine fellow I am sure who tragically fell victim to the creature's

savagery. The surviving villagers and their terror have fled to seek safety further afield, leaving the settlement abandoned. This turn of events leaves me at a crossroads. With no fresh intelligence on the lion's whereabouts, I find myself compelled to return to my camp downriver and await further reports of its movements. It is my hope that the beast's next appearance will be met with swift action, but it troubles

me deeply that its rampage may cause further suffering before I am able to bring it down. The lion's cunning is unlike any predator I have encountered in all my years of hunting. It is methodical, striking where it senses weakness and retreating before it can be caught. The terrain of this valley, though breathtaking in its beauty, provides ample cover for such a creature to stalk unseen. I will need every ounce of patience and skill to track it to its lair and end its reign of terror. I shall remain vigilant, Your Excellency, and send word as soon as new developments arise.

It is my solemn vow that I will not leave this valley until the lion has been dealt with and the peace of its people restored. I only pray that the cost of lives and livelihood may be kept to a minimum during the time it takes to finish this grim task. I shall send updates as regularly as possible, though the isolation of this region makes communication difficult. Rest assured, I am dedicated to this endeavor and will see it through to the very end. Yours in service to the Crown, Charles E. Brady, Big Game Hunter and Explorer. Camp at Luang La Fork, Northern Rhodesia, 14th August, 1891.

My dearest Margaret, I pray this letter reaches you safely, though I fear its contents may cause you distress. I write with a heavy heart, for this expedition has taken a dire turn. What we thought was a single, dreadful foe has proven to be far worse, and the task before us is now greater than I could have ever imagined. We've been tracking this lion southward along the river, following its bloody trail when word reached us of fresh attacks in the northern villages.

At first we dismissed it as an error, a case of frightened minds spreading false alarms. But the reports persisted, and when we examined the patterns, a horrifying truth emerged. There is not one man-eater, but two. The realization chilled me to the very bones. These lions are no ordinary beasts, Margaret. They work in tandem, like a force of darkness bent on tormenting this land. As one strikes in the south, the other moves north, leaving destruction and death in their wake. The people here speak of them as demons and lie in form sent to punish the living. I am no superstitious man, but looking into the devastation they

have wrought, I can see how such fears take hold. We are left with no choice but to divide our strength. Mr. Brady will remain in the south while I make my way northward to defend the villages there. It is a grave risk, splitting our forces this way, but it's the only chance we have to shield the people from further loss. I trust that God will guide my hand and give me the strength to stand against this evil. The situation is desperate, Margaret. I won't lie to you.

These lions are cunning and relentless, and the fear they sow weakens the resolve of even the strongest among us. But I cling to the belief that good men, Christian men, will prevail. We fight not for glory, but for the lives of the innocent, and I know in my heart that such a cause cannot be in vain. Please my love, keep me in your prayers, and as I keep you and the children in mine. I hold your image close to my heart and it gives me courage when the nights grow dark and the shadows press close, and I promise you Margaret, I will return to you no matter

the trials that lie ahead. Tell the little ones their father loves them dearly and that he fights for them, for their future and for the good of all. I will write again as soon as I am able. Yours, with all my heart, Jack. Camp at Mwamba Crossing, Northern Rhodesia, 1st of September 1891 To Mrs. Margaret Thompson, Yorkshire, England. Dear Madam, It is with profound sorrow and the heaviest of hearts that I write you today.

I regret that my words must carry such grief to your home, but it is my solemn duty to inform you of the passing of your husband, Jack, who fell in the line of duty during our efforts to protect the villages of the Luangwa Valley from the scourge of the man-eating lions. Jack gave his life valiantly in the defense of others. His courage and selflessness saved not only the village he fought to protect, but also countless lives that would have otherwise been lost to the terror that has plagued this region.

He stood his ground against overwhelming odds and in doing so, he displayed a bravery that will not be forgotten by those who owe him their lives. Please allow me to assure you that his sacrifice was not in vain. Jack's actions turned the tide of our campaign giving us the means and time to finally end the threat of these terrible creatures. I can also tell you with complete sincerity that Jack saved my life and more than one occasion during this expedition. Without his steady hand, sharp mind, and fearless heart, I would not be writing this letter today. He was a good man, Mrs. Thompson, the very best of men. Arrangements have been made for his body to be repatriated to England at the earliest opportunity.

The Governor has authorized a generous dispensation to cover all costs associated with his return and funeral, so that he may be laid to rest with the dignity and honor he so richly deserves. Additionally, further support has been arranged to assist you and your family in this most difficult time. Though words may never ease the pain of such loss, I hope you will take some solace in the knowledge that your husband's sacrifice was made in the service of others, in defense of the innocent, and for the greater good." His actions were those of a hero, and his memory will endure not only in your hearts, but also in the hearts of those he saved. Should you wish, I would be honored to share

more about his deeds and bravery during these dark days. He spoke often of you and the children, and it was clear that his love for you gave him strength in the face of danger. Please accept my deepest condolences and know that you and your family are in my prayers. Your humble servant, Charles E. Barkley. The story I'm about to tell you is a mixture of my own recollection and the memories of others from this period. This incident happened back when I was a little girl, so I didn't fully understand what was happening with my parents until it was fully explained to me many years later. But I guess it's no good telling you half a story, so I'll just fill in the blanks

where possible too. My mom and dad were never meant to be a couple, and those are my mom's words, not mine. I know that might sound like a pretty messed up thing to say to your own daughter, and it always comes with the caveat that I was the silver lining to all those dark clouds, but it's kind of the truth. From what I've been told, my dad was a psychotic habitual drug user, and since my mom was a teenage alcoholic who was Incapable of making good decisions for herself. They ended up dating and mom wound up getting pregnant with me

They had a rocky relationship from the start, but after I was born things got increasingly and then exponentially worse for them Dad was still using drugs. So to give us some kind of household income, he started selling them too. And that took up pretty much all of his time, so he was away from home a lot, which left my teenage mom all alone to drink, smoke dope, and try to raise a child. She had to learn from hard experience, and she said for a while there, she was so terrified of how I'd grow up that she'd cry herself to sleep at night.

But eventually she scaled back the amount that she was drinking, stopped using drugs altogether and kinda sorta got the hang of being a mom. Cut to the time I'm seven years old and instead of some crummy run down two bedroom apartment my dad is dealing drugs from, we're living in a crummy rundown two-bedroom suburban in another part of the city. My dad's working a steady job, but only really as cover for his nightly activities, which by then was brokering drug deals between local sellers and buying from other cities in the tri-state area.

He didn't keep anything of the house, but he was still heavily involved in the business, and although he made a ton of money doing it, almost all of it was used to finance his own personal vices. My mom wanted him to quit, but he wouldn't, and they'd fallen completely out of love by that point, so all they'd do was argue or snap at each other on the rare occasion Dad was ever home. Then toward the end of 1983, Mom said that she wanted us to try Thanksgiving dinner. Like an actual one, and not just fried chicken takeout from someplace.

Well, long story short, Mom messed up the food, Dad started yelling at her because he'd taken time out from his activities to be there with us, and then mom ended up relapsing hard by guzzling both bottles of wine that she'd bought and kept untouched for dad. And by the time she started to yell back at my father, slurring and wobbling as she did, I ran up to my room like I usually did to hide until the yelling had stopped. Sometime later, I'm not sure how much time passed, but I decided that I wanted to head downstairs to get some snacks. Dinner had obviously been cancelled, and although the anxiety had kept my appetite at bay for

a while, it wasn't long before it kicked in with a vengeance. With my stomach growling, I made my way downstairs and to get to my kitchen, I had to walk through the little TV room. I opened up the door, fairly confident the fighting had subsided because it was all quiet there, but as I did, I started to hear mom groaning in a weird way while dad was saying something to her in hushed tones. I kept on pushing the door until I could see them both. Mom was laying on her side on the couch while dad was kneeling next to

her, looking like he was trying to push something into her mouth, like a small piece of food or a pill. But when he pushed it into her mouth, he took a glass of water and made mom drink from it until she swallowed. She coughed a few times, but dad made sure that she got it down and then went about pushing another little pill into mom's mouth. He made her swallow that one with water too, but then he did it over and over again before my stomach finally rumbled again and I was reminded of why I'd walked downstairs in the first place. And then I started walking through the TV room towards the kitchen. Mom and dad used to do all kinds of weird stuff down there, so by age seven, I was kind

of beyond questioning any of it. And most times when I walked through that room, my dad would either yell at me to get out or ignore me when he was too high to care. Only this time, when my dad noticed that I was walking through the room, he acted surprised, scared even, and then started explaining why he'd been giving mommy pills. I told him all I wanted was to go get a snack because I was hungry, and then after he very uncharacteristically invited me to help myself to snacks and candy, he joined me in the kitchen, and grabbed the biggest round bottom cooking pan he could find and then

he went back into the room with it. As I walked back through with my snack and candy bars, Dad was supporting Mom as she leaned over and puked into the pan. He was rubbing her back and saying all kinds of very odd, nice things, but I remember how he stuck his fingers in her mouth at one point too. I thought it was maybe to get throw up out of her mouth because she didn't seem like she was fully awake, and now I know different. My dear old dad hadn't been trying to help my mom because she drank too much and made

herself sick. He was trying to feed her so many pills that it would kill her. I don't know exactly what his plan was and my mom doesn't know exactly what combination of pills he tried to give her either, but he certainly didn't plan on me walking in while it was happening. I guess he just tried to keep me calm and unquestioning at first, but when he realized that I might say something to the cops if I ever got questioned, he knew that he had to purge mom's stomach of the pills before they took effect. And so that's what he did. Mom said she only realized what was happening

because in the days after, it felt like she'd been swallowing broken glass. She went to take some pain meds for her very sore throat and then realized a bunch of medication bottles were missing. Dad played dumb and said that he didn't know what she was talking about, but he'd also failed to properly clean the carpet of mom's vomit. She said that she kneeled down to sniff a patch of carpet just to make sure it wasn't her nose playing tricks on her, and that's when she saw a little white pill sitting under the couch. She'd obviously coughed or spat it out while dad was force feeding them to her.

Then the rush to void her stomach, someone had knocked it under the couch. She was then able to figure out which kind of medication it was and then confronted my dad on what the rest of it had disappeared to. He then gave her some big sob story about how she'd done it to herself and that he'd been the one to save her. But mom had long since figured out when dad was lying to her and when he was telling the truth. She left not long after with me in tow, which I guess is what dad wanted to get rid of us, but it was obviously reaching dangerously critical levels of wanting that to happen. If he was willing to hurt mom,

what would he have done with me? Would he have left me on the doorstep of an orphanage with a sign around my neck? Or would I have been the next one to have myself a little accident? Back in November of 2011, my girlfriend, Holly, invited me to Thanksgiving at her parents' place. We'd been seeing each other since February of that year, so it seemed about the right time to meet her folks. But then when I responded with a very enthusiastic yes, she told me it wouldn't be that kind of visit.

It wasn't just going to be us and her parents, she was an only child. A bunch of other family members would be there, including her paternal grandpa and her paternal aunt. Her paternal grandpa was a weird old coot, didn't have a great relationship with her dad and was always a source of tension during holiday get-togethers. But the reason she was really nervous that year, and the reason why she needed me there as, and these are the words she used, a service animal, was the presence of that paternal aunt, a lady who I'll just simply refer to as Janet. Her dad and grandpa didn't get along, but in the case of Aunt Janet,

she and Holly's grandpa hadn't said so much as a word to each other in almost 20 years. To be fair, she hadn't spoken to much of anyone since she left town in her 20s, which was apparently sudden, without explanation, and under dubious circumstances. Starting up around the time Holly's grandma died she kept in touch with her sisters here and there, but she hadn't been home to visit anyone in almost two decades. So to have her suddenly showing up again and showing interest in being around the family, it was a really big deal to Holly's mom and dad. As expected, Holly's grandpa had been dead against the idea of her coming to Thanksgiving

dinner, but her dad was insistent. It was the first time Aunt Janet had asked to be around them in nearly two decades, so there was no way in hell he was about to turn down this first request, because who knew when they'd get another? Everyone acknowledged it was a potentially volatile situation, but being accustomed to such occurrences at everything from Christmases to Fourth of July barbecues, Holly's dad felt the potential rewards were worth the risk. Some of Holly's relatives were optimistic, but it was an optimism she didn't share, and

she made it abundantly clear that the event would most likely go horribly wrong, and since that wouldn't be particularly pleasant for me to witness, she said that she wouldn't hold it against me if I turned down the invitation. That was how Holly phrased it, but what I heard was if you put up with my dumb family then it'll show that you're really serious about this relationship. And since I was getting pretty serious about our future together, it was like she'd thrown me a curveball I had a really good chance of knocking out of the park. Holly's parents lived in a really nice place over in North Jersey.

It was a modern colonial with a regal looking red brick facade and a welcoming porch supported by grand white columns. The front lawn and flower beds were perfectly maintained and I'm pretty sure I saw a pool, hot tub and barbecue pit in the backyard, each covered up for the winter. But it was only when I walked inside that I realized just how fancy the place really was. The entranceway consisted of a grand two-story foyer with sweeping double staircase, gleaming chandelier and polished hardwood floors.

Holly had already told me that her parents made a lot of money, but their house had to be one of the nicest I've ever laid eyes on, and I say that as an avid watcher of those old MTV crib clips. There was a formal living room and dining room, both with coffered ceilings and oversized windows for this natural light, and then a cozy family room with a stone fireplace and brown leather couches. I could think of way worse places to spend Thanksgiving, even if I was about to witness a familial apocalypse.

After being greeted by Holly's parents, we were directed into the family room and since we'd arrived a little earlier than everyone else, I got to enjoy some one-on-one time with her dad. He seemed like a pretty okay guy, a little stern, but a lot more laid back than I expected him to be. Holly had always made her dad out to be this kind of drill sergeant figure, a man who dedicated himself to building his company and who had very little time for anyone else. Holly had always made her dad out to be this kind of drill sergeant figure, a man who dedicated

himself to building his company and who had very little time for anyone else. However, once he seemed happy that I wasn't a total douchebag intent on breaking his daughter's heart, he warmed up to me considerably. Holly and her mom brought through some hot apple cider and we talked a little more before the rest of her relatives began to arrive. A few cousins showed up with aunts and uncles, and then one of her mom's old college friends showed up with her husband. Her grandpa was one of the last people to show up and when he did, he felt the atmosphere

immediately shift from joyful to mildly tense. Holly's grandpa seemed like a real grouchy guy, and I saw two of her aunts go into full-on people-pleasing mode in an attempt to manage the tension and avoid conflict. Grandpa seemed happy to see his daughters, but it was a lukewarm kind of happy. Holly's dad got a stern handshake and a very joyless, good to see you son, but upon first glance it didn't seem like he and grandpa would be at each other's throats. I pointed this out to Holly and then mentioned how maybe that year might buck the trend in

terms of family conflict, and she responded with a shake of her head and assured me that what I was seeing was most likely the calm before the storm. In her experience, the tension would inevitably ramp up throughout the course of the afternoon and then add the return of the prodigal aunt into the mix, and she had a gut feeling that she'd be needing my support by early evening. And like I said, Holly's grandpa seemed stern, like father like son, but unlike her dad, he didn't seem remotely interested in breaking the ice. When I was introduced as his granddaughter's boyfriend, he seemed completely disinterested, and asked Holly's mom why I was there if I wasn't family.

Then when she tried to explain, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. It was obnoxious in the extreme, but I'd been warned of how much of an a-hole he could be, so it's not like I felt wounded when he treated me so rudely. Actually it was kind of a relief. I didn't give a crap about what her weird old grandpa had to say. If my potential future mother and father-in-law were chilled, then that was all I cared about. Holly's grandpa could go off, and sure, it'd be pretty unpleasant in the moment, but if things got a little too crazy, I'd be there to drive her home and make sure that she got

the support that she needed. And after that, I was quite sure that the whole thing would be forgotten about in like a week, or maybe a month, or however long it took, and it'd be like it had never even happened in the first place. But when the incident did come, it wasn't some run-of-the-mill family yelling match. It was bigger, more frantic, and more frightening than anything I could have ever imagined. It was bigger, more frantic, and more frightening than anything I could have ever imagined. And so once I had the meeting with Holly's grouchy grandpa out of the way, I was feeling pretty good about the rest of the afternoon. He'd been making comments about me all day, about how I shouldn't have been there, about how they shouldn't be letting me date Holly, but literally everyone seemed chill except

him, so it just became a case of staying out of his way and ignoring his jabs, and everything would go relatively smoothly. The only other real test the get-together had to endure was the arrival of Holly's Aunt Janet. Less than an hour before we all sat down for dinner, Aunt Janet arrived at Holly's parents' place. She was the oldest of her siblings, but looked pretty good for her age and showed up carrying what looked like some kind of portfolio bag, the kind artists use to transport their paintings

from place to place. Aunt Janet and her siblings had talked while she was away so it wasn't like it was their first time talking to her in 20 years, but it was still a profoundly emotional affair. There was a lot of hugging, a few tears, and Aunt Janet was even swapping greetings with her long-estranged father without incident. So even that late in the day I was convinced that I dodged a major bullet and that everything might turn out alright. Janet and her sisters were sort of entrenched in catching up for about an hour while Holly's

grandpa and some of the other guys watched football in pretty much next to silence, until finally Holly's mom called us all to dinner. Holly was Italian on her mom's side, so in addition to most of the usual Thanksgiving stuff, there were things like shrimp cocktails, baked clams, and even a charcuterie board. Then instead of mashed potatoes or candied yams, her mom served baked ziti with her butter-based turkey along with roasted Brussels sprouts and string beans sauteed in garlic and olive oil. And everything she put down on the table was absolutely incredible and primarily most of the reason I remember most of it. And so much so that once everything was doled out, the whole table quit talking for a solid ten minutes and we just

stuffed our faces until conversation slowly started up again. Everyone was focused on how good the food was, at least until after dinner when topics started to meander and Holly's father and aunt started to reminisce about their childhood. Aunt Jan had stayed quiet for the most part and then while Holly's father and aunt started to reminisce about their childhood. Aunt Janet stayed quiet for the most part, and then while Holly's mom started to clear the table after dessert had been served, Janet volunteered to help her. We talked amongst ourselves for a while, then once people started to try and get up from the table and do their own thing, Janet reappeared with that portfolio bag in her hand. She politely asked everyone to take a seat again because she wanted to host an after-dinner-parlor game for us,

as a thank you for being such gracious hosts. Everyone seemed pretty excited. Then once we'd all returned to our seats, Janet announced that she'd liked everyone at the table to partake in a game of Word Association. She'd been gone for such a long time and by her own admission hadn't kept up to date with everyone nearly as much as she should have. So what better way to start the process of catching up than with a friendly non-competitive game of Word Association.

When Aunt Janet said parlor game I figured that she just meant like charades or something. But when it came to word association, I didn't understand where the challenge actually was, and apparently neither did Holly's grandpa. He started up by asking something like, a goddamn point of all of this, but was quickly silenced by Holly's dad who told him to be polite and allowed Janet to host the game that she had planned. Everyone went quiet and then Janet grabbed the large portfolio bag and revealed it to contain a portable whiteboard complete with legs to stand on.

Now these sort of expectant looks were exchanged on account of how well prepared she was and at first people were confused but excited. Then after pulling out a marker from the whiteboard's carry bag, Aunt Janet began to write. The first word that she wrote on the whiteboard was school. Aunt Janet then went around the room asking for words or phrases people associated with school. My own personal answer was lunch, but she also got answers like teacher, homework, football

team, and other things of that nature. Aunt Janet did the same thing with the word boat house, then the word bear, and then finally she sort of surveyed all of our thought associations with the word truth. By the time she was done, Janet had written four big prompt words on the board along with dozens of smaller words leading off from the larger words, kind of like a mind map. She then put the cap back on the pen and then took a step back from the board and asked us all what we saw. Seeing as none of us could tell if her question was rhetorical or not, everyone stayed quiet and waited for the answer. And Janet wasted no time in telling us. She pointed to all the answers we'd given and told

us that they were all kinds of answers that regular people give, whereas all her own answers were considerably different. Janet said that when she thought of the word school, she thought of the word sick, and that was due to all the sick days that she'd taken while in elementary school. I remember thinking, where is she going with this exactly? But then right after she said that last thing, Janet turned to Holly's grandpa and says, you remember all those sick days too, don't you dad? But I was never really sick, was I? At least not for the most times you called the school and told them

I was too sick to attend There was this sort of Discomfort across the dining table and Holly's grandpa grumbled something about not knowing what she was talking about But then on Janet says oh you don't you sure about that? You sure you got no idea what I'm talking about? Well how's about this next word? Boathouse. Aunt Janet then said that whenever she saw or thought of the word boathouse, she didn't think of fishing trips or lakeside vacations.

She thought of the pain she'd suffered one summer when she was a kid. She went on to describe how when Holly's father was just a baby, the family had gone on a vacation in upstate New York. Janet had ended up misbehaving somehow when Holly's grandpa had dragged her away from the lake and into a friend's boathouse for a stern talking to. But a stern talking to was not all she got. Janet claimed the punishment that she was given was a far cry from anything considered acceptable between father and daughter, and that the pain that she felt afterwards was

so fierce that she couldn't sit down without her tummy hurting. Again, Holly's grandpa grumbled something about having no memory of the event, and everyone else stayed very quiet. Aunt Janet then pointed to the word bear, and then to a few of our more innocent associations. We said things like grizzly and teddy bear. And while Janet also associated the word with the small, stuffed and cuddly variety, her further associations were not positive ones.

Janet said that she associated teddy bears with distraction, delusion, even disassociation, because it was her teddies that her father told her to cuddle whenever he did things no father should ever be doing to their daughter. There was a straight up gasp when she said that, and no one dared to get up from their chairs and as Holly's grandpa began to yell about Janet being a crazy c-word, Janet shrieked over him so loud that everyone including grandpa was silenced. That's when she pointed to the word truth, and although I definitely won't quote her verbatim because I'm quite confident it'll get your channel a strike or a warning or something of that

nature, this is roughly what she said. Janet said that whenever she thought of the word truth, she felt that she'd been robbed of any positive association. Other people heard or read that word and it gave them hope, hope for a sense of order and justice in the world. When she thought of the word truth, it was like a dagger in her gut. It hurt because for her whole life, she'd wondered if anyone would ever believe the truth of what her own father did to her when she was growing up, and even if she did one

day find the courage to talk about it, she wondered how in the world a person goes about announcing something like that. Well, apparently, Janet had plenty of time to think about it than when she finally made up her mind and had the perfect method of delivery planned out. She called up Holly's dad and asked if she could attend Thanksgiving that year. And by the time Janet had finally finished her speech, people were either sobbing or just completely filled with shock. Then as she asked Holly's grandpa to say something, anything, he went from completely

ashen and silent to filled with rage. He screamed at Janet, but Janet screamed right back at him. Holly's aunts were crying while her dad looked like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. All of the people that weren't immediate family excused themselves and headed for the door the minute things started flying off the handle. I just remember reaching for Holly's hand and holding it. She looked like she was on the verge of catatonia, pale and wide-eyed, like her mind was struggling to compute what she had just heard.

And I kept telling her, we can leave if you want to, but she wouldn't respond. Her eyes were fixed on Janet and her grandpa, who suddenly rose from her chair and walked off toward the kitchen. Janet yelled something to him, and then when she appeared to run out of steam, she turned and walked towards her whiteboard and began packing it into its case, soundtracked by the sobbing of her sisters. It was probably one of the more surreal experiences of my entire life. Seeing the breakdown of a family like that would be emotionally intense at the very best of times. But to have such a

sickening 30-year-old secret divulge like that was the kind of drama I've only ever seen in movies or TV. In those situations people are glued to what they're seeing on screen. But then in real life, it's like I wanted the ground to just open up and swallow me so I didn't have to bear witness to any more mind-shattering heartbreak. I really did want nothing more than to get out of there, but there was no leaving without Holly. Wherever she went, I went, and for better or for worse. At first it didn't look like Holly's grandpa was going to re-enter the dining room, and I don't think anyone had wanted him there either.

I got the impression that with Holly's dad and aunts the abuse of their elder sister and at the hands of their father was something they'd long suspected but never had confirmed. The shock only lasted a minute or two. What came next was this very deep, resounding grief, like they'd always known and had just never wanted to accept it. And after all, Holly's grandpa had barely said a word in his own defense, but then seconds later he reappeared in the dining room's doorway with one hand held firmly behind his back. From where I was sitting I couldn't see what grandpa was concealing, but as he walked across

the room and approached Aunt Janet, Holly's dad caught a glimpse of what he was holding and jumped from his chair. He yelled, Dad, no! And then threw himself across the room at him, just as Holly's grandpa raised a kitchen knife above his head. I don't think he'd have actually been able to stab Aunt Janet, because she saw it coming way early and jumped back as Holly's dad grabbed Grandpa's arm. Grandpa was a man possessed, like you could see it in his eyes that he'd

completely lost his mind, but he was old and slow. Well, Holly's dad was still relatively fast, but much, much stronger. And within seconds, Holly's dad had Grandpa restrained and Aunt Janet was walking out of the house while yelling assurances that no one would ever see her again. Not long after Janet left and with grandpa being sort of sequestered in another room, Holly decided it was finally time to leave. She stayed quiet the whole drive home, stayed in bed for almost a week afterwards and ignored phone calls from just about everyone except me and a handful of her friends.

She didn't want to talk about what had happened. In fact, we broke up long before I ever got the chance to really discuss things with her. Or rather, before there came a time when she was comfortable talking about it. And I don't blame her either. If that was me, I wouldn't even want to believe it, let alone be able to summon the strength to talk about it. And I don't blame her either. If that was me, I wouldn't even want to believe it, let alone be able to summon the strength to talk about it. And so despite seeing her family's breakdown up close, I never found out what happened in either the immediate or long-term aftermath.

I still think about Holly quite often, even all these years later. I wonder how she's doing, and if her family ever found peace. I've sometimes thought about reaching out to her just to wonder how she's doing and if her family ever found peace. I've sometimes thought about reaching out to her just to see how she's doing, but something tells me I'll only be a painful reminder of the single worst day of her life. Hi, let's read. This story was shared with me by my late grandfather who has long since passed away. He used to tell it to us as kids, sitting by the fire on cold, quiet nights. At the time, we thought it was just one of his wild tales meant to entertain us. After his passing, I found his journal among his things and there it was, written down

by his own hand. The reading it gave me chills all over again, as I always thought these were just fantasies in his head. But now I'm sharing it with you exactly as told to me, because I think it deserves to be remembered. So thank you for sharing if you do. Long ago, back in the summer of 1925, I applied for a job as a game warden on a large country estate. I'd grown up in rural England, and as a boy I'd spent countless hours walking the local woods and

fields and learning the habits of game birds, deer, and other wildlife. I had and still have a huge passion for the great British countryside, and so with that in hand I approached the estate manager of the nearby Capsthorn Hall. I handed Mr. Wilkinshaw a letter of recommendation from the local rector, a man who'd known me since I was a boy. Back in those days, character counted just as much as ability, but the letter didn't appear to sway Mr. Wilkinshaw in the least bit. He told me that being a game warden was no job

for a young man such as myself, and that even if I was bullheaded enough to disagree, Caps Thorn Hall wasn't the place for me to start. I tried to plead my case, but Mr. Walkenshaw was steadfast in his dismissal, at least until I'd turned my back on him and walked away a few steps. It was then that he called after me and told me if I was serious about working with him, I should return the next morning and after rethinking my proposal. Well, I thought about it and decided that I still fancied life as a game warden, and so back I went the next morning to talk to Mr. Walkinshaw. Impressed at my return, Mr. Walkinshaw invited me to partake in an on-the-stop interview

which thankfully was far from formal. He took me on a walk across the grounds, quizzing me on my knowledge of wildlife and how I'd handle trespassers or poachers. I had to demonstrate that I could recognize the tracks of different game animals and predict their movements. Then, as for the areas of knowledge I was lacking in, Mr. Walkinshaw assured me that he'd fill in the gaps. I'd receive ample instruction on the handling, maintenance, and use of firearms. I'd also be taught how to track a poacher's path, how to mend a broken

pheasant pen, and how to set snares or traps with precision. However, once I had proven my competence, Mr. Walkinshotton informed me that perhaps the most important factor wasn't my proficiency, it was how much I could be trusted. The landowners often entertained guests for hunts, and it was vital to ensure their enjoyment without any disruption or violation of their privacy. I assured them that I could do the job quietly and efficiently, and that the lord of the manor's private business was of no interest to me whatsoever. Then, and only then, was I offered the position, which came with accommodation in the form

of a small cottage on the edge of the estate. My duties began immediately, checking the pheasant pens, repairing fences, setting traps for foxes, and patrolling the grounds after dark. It was solitary work, but I got a great deal of satisfaction from it. Ensuring the game thrived and that the estate remained secure became a matter of personal pride for me. But at the same time, the job wasn't without its challenges. Poachers were a constant threat, and dealing with them required firmness and tact.

But in those early days I relished the responsibility and the rhythm of life and service to the land. But reality was I labored in ignorance. Ignorant of Mr. Walkinshaw's rather cryptic warning as well as the estate's true nature. It was a clear, quiet night in the late autumn, the kind where the air is still balmy but the faint rustle of leaves can carry for miles. I was doing my usual rounds, patrolling the far edges of the estate near the woods that bordered the nearby moors.

The pheasants had been restless that week and I suspected a fox had been prowling close to their pens. So, with my lantern casting a soft golden glow ahead of me and my shotgun rested comfortably in the crook of my arm, I carefully and silently patrolled while keeping my ears and eyes peeled. As I approached the old oak tree near the gameskeeper's path, I heard an unnatural sound coming through the trees. It wasn't the stealthy padding of a fox with a quick dart of a hare, but rather a low, guttural growl that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It came from the deeper part of the woods, beyond where my lantern could reach, and the moment I heard it, I paused, my grip tightening on the shotgun.

And then I saw it, just beyond the trees where the shadows grew thick. At first it looked like a man crouched low on the ground, but it was something about the way it moved, something that seemed wrong to me. Its shoulders were hunched and too broad, while its limbs seemed far too long to be those of a fox or even a deer. The moonlight caught its eyes, reflecting a yellow gleam that sent a shiver through me. It sniffed the air, and I could see the glint of sharp teeth and a mouth that seemed too

large for any human face. My instinct told me to retreat, but my duty held me fast. Poachers I could deal with, predators too. But this, this was something else entirely. I raised my shotgun, calling out, Who's there? With my voice sounding steadier than I felt. The figure straightened, and that's when I saw its full height.

Taller than any man, with a body covered in coarse, dark fur. Its hands, or claws, whatever they were, hung at its sides long and sharp, and as my eyes found them, I began to question the strength of my shotgun. It stepped forward slowly and deliberately, and I fell rooted to the spot. Was it a man in some terrible costume? An animal disfigured by disease? I asked a thousand questions in just a few short seconds, but no answer satisfied my

terror. Its growl deepened, reverberating in my chest like thunder. I raised the shotgun, then fired a warning shot into the air. The sound echoed through the woods, startling a flock of roosting birds into flight, but the creature didn't flinch. Instead it let out a bone-chilling howl that started low but rose into a piercing wail. My heart pounded. I took a step back and then another, and another. Thankfully the creature advanced no further and instead stood its ground watching me with

eyes that glowed in the bright silvery moonlight. Then as quickly as it had appeared, it turned, dropped back down to all fours, and then melted into the shadows of the trees. I stood there for what felt like hours, my breathing ragged and my shotgun trembling in my hands. Then when I finally found the courage to move, I walked briskly back to the estate, lantern swinging wildly at my side. The usual sounds of the woods unnervingly absent.

The night felt heavier. I was not alone. The next morning I approached Mr. Walkinshaw and informed him of my nocturnal encounter. I had assumed his reaction would be incredulous, that he'd accuse me of drinking on the job or having far too fanciful an imagination, yet he seemed so unsurprised by my report that I began to feel very unsettled. He told me that he too had experienced nocturnal encounters with such a beast, but that it was no threat to him or anyone else working at the estate. He said that, in a manner of speaking, the creature was Lord Capesthorne's pet, and that

its ilk had called the estate home for centuries. Any encounter with one of the beasts was sure to put the fear of God into a man, yet he assured me that slaying it would bring untold woe to the estate and its holders. Trusting in his experience and expertise, I took Mr. Walkinshaw's word to heart. But every time I patrolled that part of the estate after dark, I carried a heavier lantern and extra shells and a prayer whispered under my breath. Whatever that thing was, beast, man, or nightmare, it reminded me that some corners of the wild still belong to the unknown. A

few years back, I drove over to my parents place to spend Thanksgiving with them and our extended family. As I stepped out of my car, I remember smelling the smoke of burning log fires drifting on the breeze and it was like stepping through a time machine. I don't know about you, but there's something really special about that time of year when all the different smells and sensations of late fall can take you right back to being a kid again. But I wasn't a kid anymore, far from it in fact. I had taken my place as the unmarried uncle, showing up halfway through the day after spending

the morning at work. The driveway of my parents' house was lined with cars and as I walked towards the front door I could already hear the swirls of conversation and laughter coming from inside. After knocking on the door my mom appeared on the entrance and as she welcomed me inside a wave of warmth and rich aromas hit my face. The combined scent of roast turkey and spiced pies and something unmistakably buttery hung thick in the air. Then as mom pulled me in for a big hug, I truly felt at home.

After we swapped a little small talk regarding the weather and the drive over, mom walked me into a living room alive with activity and then announced my arrival. My cousins were sprawled across the couches, looking away from their football game for just the briefest of moments to greet me with raised beer bottles. A few of the kids were sitting on the floor between them holding plates of snacks and chattering amongst themselves, and it was amazing to see how much they've grown. In the kitchen, a few of my aunts and uncles sat around the dinner table sipping glasses of wine.

Even more children darted in and out as my mom made her way to the stove, joined by an aunt who started stirring and tasting and then passing notes back to mom. It was loud, messy, and in my mind, perfect. It felt like Thanksgiving and it felt like home. I asked my mom if that was everyone, as in everyone who was due to show up for dinner, and she said that we were only waiting on one other person to show up, and that person was Uncle Tony. My Uncle Tony was still considered the baby among his siblings and was only around 10 years older than myself at the time, so

early 40s. He was a pretty unremarkable guy. Close to my grandpa, but quiet and mostly kept to himself. I lived out of town, but Uncle Tony lived out of state, so every family holiday he'd make the four hour drive across state lines and was usually the last to join us. Personally, I was always figured that he deliberately timed his journey to coincide with dinner being less than an hour from the table. He was never a particularly outgoing person, so I figured all the small talk and catching up with distant relatives was a bit of a headache for him. He'd show up before dinner, eat his fill, and then relax with us for a few hours while

everyone was too full of turkey to say anything to each other. But then that year, it looked like he was cutting things a little too close for comfort. About a half hour before mom was set to ring the dinner bell, she asked me to text Uncle Tony for his estimated time of arrival, and I figured he'd be driving, so I didn't expect his immediate response, but when dinner was only around five minutes from the table, mom asked me to give him a call to check where he was. I called once, but it went to voicemail. I then called a second time, but it didn't ring as long as before the call went to his

answer machine, and I figured that that was a sign of life since him declining the call meant that he was probably only a few blocks away. He also wouldn't want to risk a ticket by, you know, talking on the wheel or something on a day when the cops are pretty much just dying to bag themselves a few drunks or bad drivers to make holiday examples out of. I told all that to my mom, but she was still very concerned, so she had me calling my Uncle Tony on repeat while she got everyone to the table. She then asked me to sort of help deal with dishes and serving plates to everyone at the

table, but once we'd all sat down to eat, she kept checking her phone and complaining that Tony wasn't responding to messages. All the adults who knew him checked their phones just in case he sent somebody a message that they hadn't seen yet. But when they didn't see any notifications from him, they just began consuming their food. And no one seemed all that worried about Tony at first, but it wasn't because they didn't care.

He was always the last to show up and did so by that small margin that I talked about earlier, so they figured that he'd just run into a little bit of traffic or something and would be there within the hour. And so by the time we'd all finished our bowls of pumpkin pie and hand whipped vanilla cream and all that good stuff, Uncle Tony still hadn't shown up, and neither had he called or texted to let us know where he was. A few of us started calling and texting him again, only this time with very added concern. It was my phone that his name first flashed across, as it

buzzed with an incoming text message notification, but despite what I read being totally innocuous, it was somehow oddly unsettling too. Uncle Tony had texted me, but all his message read was, hi. It's hard to articulate what I felt in the moments that followed. Getting that single word message was so out of character that I think I instinctively knew something was wrong with Uncle Tony from the moment I read it. However, as I tried to figure out how to properly convey my concern, I stayed quiet, just long enough to hear the phones of my relatives begin to buzz with their own incoming messages.

They came in at a rate of about one every 10 to 15 seconds, but one by one, my aunts, uncles, mother and father all got single word messages that simply read, Hi. It was one of my uncles that got the first message as he read it out loud for everyone to hear. There were a few moments of confusion as people wondered why he might send such a very weird message when he was almost 90 minutes late for dinner. And then right as the concerns started to register on their faces, my mom tapped her phone, put it to her ear, and waited for my Uncle Tony to answer her call.

When he once again failed to pick up, we all started sending him messages mostly along the lines of, are you okay? Pick up the phone. Call us when you can. I was the first to receive a reply. Hope I haven't left you all waiting. Lol. It read.

It was completely inconsistent with Uncle Tony's usual style of texting, and knowing the person on the other end wouldn't answer any calls's usual style of texting, and knowing the person on the other end wouldn't answer any calls, I found myself texting, Who is this? The reply came in seconds and simply read, Thumbelina. Knowing I probably wasn't going to get anything useful out of them, I decided to ask one more question before calling the cops. I texted, Where's Tony?

Then when the reply came, I had to struggle to keep a straight face as I got up from the table. I told everyone I was going to call a friend of his just in case he passed out drunk and they were texting from his phone as a prank or something. It was a dumb excuse. Everyone knew that wasn't like Uncle Tony to get blackout drunk like that, and had appropriately confused expressions as I got up from the table and walked into the kitchen. But honestly, I couldn't think of anything else to say. All my brain power was focused on maintaining this complete poker face, not freaking the heck out, because in response to my messages of where's Tony, whoever had this phone

had texted me back. I don't know. But there will be no more thanksgivings where he's going, ha ha ha ha. Where's Tony? Whoever had this phone had text me back. I don't know. But there will be no more thanksgivings where he's going. The first thing I did when I walked into the kitchen was call the cops. One of my uncles followed and soon figured out that I wasn't talking to Uncle Tony's friend. We tried to keep the news from spreading, but the rest of the adults soon figured out

something was wrong when whoever had Tony's phone started texting them similarly creepy stuff. After that the mood in the house began to sharply decline, but everyone managed to keep from totally panicking or displaying too much of any other emotion, at least until all the kids were either upstairs or on the way home from their parents. And after that, all bets were off, and my mom and aunt were fanning themselves in between bouts of sobbing, praying this whole thing was just some sick joke. But sadly, it wasn't.

By the time I placed the 911 call in my mom's kitchen, the cops had already found my Uncle Tony. He was sitting in his car, which was parked in the parking lot of a closed-up business, and he was leaned up against the steering wheel with a bullet hole through his head. They found his phone just a few hours later, in the hands of a girl sitting in a diner only a few miles from where Tony's car was found. She'd cut off his thumb so she could keep unlocking his phone every time she wanted to use it, and although she could have used it to do just about anything, she chose to

taunt the relatives of the man she'd just shot through the head on the way to a family Thanksgiving. And from what I understand the whole thing was a pretty open and shut case. The girl was so crazy that when the cops arrived to arrest her, she insisted on finishing off a text message before they put her in cuffs. She didn't get to send it, but she was in the process of typing on a message to one of Tony's co-workers, gloating about how he'd never get to see him again. I think she spent about five minutes with psychiatrists before they declared the girl to be completely and utterly out of her mind.

She was detained at the hospital and has been there ever since. The cops later said that they figured that she was some type of hitchhiker, and since she was young, small of stature, and generally disarming in appearance, Uncle Tony had most likely offered to give her a ride someplace. But that is something that never, ever sat right with us. Like I said earlier, Tony was a very reserved kind of guy, possibly to the point that you might call him selfish. There's no way he'd have stopped to give anyone a ride, not unless they were in serious life or death kind of trouble. He'd rather forego the human interaction, and mom said he was like that since pretty

much forever. So we've all kind of wondered just what happened for him to pull over and let that girl into his car. Because it wouldn't be like any Uncle Tony we knew to put himself at risk like that. Not unless something was very, very wrong. From 2009 to 2017, I served as an infantryman in the British Army's Duke of Lancaster's Regiment. I applied to join just before my 22nd birthday and to be honest, I really didn't know what I was getting myself into. But after the initial shock of training, I found it was exactly what I was looking for. I won't bore you

with all the cliches about the camaraderie or the spiritual satisfaction that duty brings, because for me it was the structure I enjoyed the most. I had a terrible time in school, so much so that my mom and dad thought that I had a problem with authority. They thought I was mental for even considering the army and said I'd be thrown out within a week. But when the staff training you have all been to Iraq and Afghanistan two or three times a piece, and actually been in combat, it's a lot easier to pay them the respect they demand.

And so, just a few months of training, I went from a dickhead layabout with a reputation for getting myself into trouble, to an infantry soldier, fit for service in one of the finest armed forces in the world. I joined a little bit too late to see Iraq, but I ended up going to Afghanistan for six months over 2013 to 2014 as part of an Afghan army mentoring team, or OMLET. Soldering was my life. I didn't want to do anything else, and I could see myself pushing 50 and retiring as some crusty old sergeant with a big fat pension and plenty of time for golf and the grandkids. But as the saying goes, God laughs at those who make plans.

In my 8th year of service, so just after I turned 30 in 2017, there was an accident during a training exercise in Wales and I suffered a pretty severe back injury. I did some rehab for a while and I suspected that I'd be medically discharged, but the notice came and I was devastated. I put so much faith in the rehab process that I hadn't mentally prepared myself for the worst to happen, so once I was out of the army, I just felt lost. I worked four different jobs in the year after I got out.

I'd work somewhere for a few months, get sick to my back teeth at the job and the people, and then move on to something else hoping the results might be different. I found the work dull. I had sought all respect for most of my bosses and most of my colleagues were a major pain in the arse, but no matter where I went, it'd be the same routine every single time. Get job. Get bored. Get shut. But then finally, I got a phone call from an old Nate who was still in the regiment.

He knew that I was having a rough time in the civilian job market, but he also said that he might just have the solution for me, and that solution came in the form of a very unique employment opportunity. The Democratic Republic of Congo, or DRC, is one of the most war-torn countries on Earth, and since 1950, it's been embroiled in seven major civil conflicts. The near-nonstop violence means that vast swaths of the country are now lawless, and are completely at the mercy of rebel militias or criminal gangs. These groups are often indistinguishable from one another, both in appearance and in their method of violence, but they both have something else in common, in that they both found a

truly diabolical way of financing their operations. The poaching of rare and endangered African animals. In the early 2010s the situation in one of the DRC's national parks got so bad that the country basically begged the international community for help. In Birunga National Park poachers were killing rare birds, reptiles, antelopes, even hippos for their teeth. But the thing that really caused international outcry was when they started targeting the elephants and gorillas. Virunga is one of the few remaining habitats of the critically endangered mountain gorilla,

so when conservationists noticed that they were being shot, caught, or killed in poachers' traps, they were devastated. African forest elephants are also critically endangered. So when the poachers started killing them, just to hack off their tusks and leg it, global wildlife charities reacted in a similarly furious fashion. And in the end, the European Union decided to set up what's called the Virunga Foundation, which took its entire African conservation budget and poured it into the defense of Virunga National Park.

The foundation inflated the park's budget by around 80%, and then essentially took responsibility for both the park's conservation efforts and its overall security. They employed dozens of additional park rangers and supplied them with small arms and, then after only the most minimal of training, would send them out to deter poachers and evict illegal farmers from the boundaries of the park. However, while the rangers' initial efforts proved effective, it drove the poachers into an ad hoc alliance with a group of armed rebels known as the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda, or for short, the FDLR.

In late 2015, when a group of rangers and government soldiers attempted to evict one of the last illegal farmers in Varunga, they were ambushed by a team of poachers and FDLR fighters. When the smoke had cleared, 15 soldiers and one park ranger laid dead. And in a bid to preserve human life and at the direction of both the Foundation and the Congolese government, the rangers seeded ground to the poachers and rebels. They hoped the move might put an end to the violence in Burunga, but they were wrong. In August of 2017, five park rangers were attacked while on a routine patrol near Lake

Edward. They were first pinned down by a sniper firing from a distant tree line, and then as they struggled to escape, assault teams descended on them from two opposing directions. Ranger HQ sent a reaction force of rangers and Congolese soldiers to relieve them, but one by one the Rangers radios fell silent, and by the time the reaction force reached their position, all five Rangers were dead. And the same thing happened just a few months later during the spring of 2018 when five more Rangers in a Congolese army driver were ambushed and killed. and this brought the total number of murdered rangers to a shocking 175.

But as in so many other similar situations, it didn't become critical until the region's tourism was affected. In May of 2018, two young British tourists named Bethan Davies and Robert Jesty were on a tour of Irrunga when they were spotted by a group of rebels. The ranger charged with guiding them, a 25-year-old named Rachel Baraka attempted to defend them but was killed almost immediately as the rebels attacked their position. After a period of negotiation, along with rumors that an SAS hostage rescue team was

en route to Virunga Bethann and Robert were eventually released But their kidnapping meant that in June of 2018 Virunga had to be closed until the safety of visitors could be insured In this boys and girls is how my job opportunity arose And by the summer of 2018 almost every citizen of Eastern Congo knew exactly how dangerous it was to take a job as a ranger. Reports regarding ranger casualties were being widely and frequently published, and it was common knowledge that taking on the poachers and rebels meant doing so with minimal equipment and manpower.

In so many words, becoming a Varunga Park Ranger was practically a death sentence. So as you can imagine, their recruitment levels dropped off dramatically. At least until they brought in the requirements and extended an invitation to international applicants. If you had any experience as an infantry soldier, the Varunga Foundation was offering very generous pay packets to anyone willing to help train and mentor the ranger teams. As I mentioned earlier, being on that Afghan omelette team meant that I had the exact expertise that they were looking for.

It would be dangerous work, and there was every chance that I'd end up getting shot at, but for me, hearing that only sealed the deal. By some bizarre twist of fate, I had a golden opportunity to carry on soldiering, and you can bet your bottom dollar that I grabbed hold of that opportunity with both hands, like a chimp ripping its owner's face off. And just a few weeks after getting that phone call from my mate in the regiment, I was boarding a plane at Manchester Airport bound for eastern Congo. 18 hours later, I landed at Goma Airport at around 4am local time, then met up with my

contact in the arrivals lounge. When I was first told about the former Green Beret, whose job it was to orientate international recruits, I pictured some Chuck Norris look-alike who ate bullets, pissed petrol, and crapped rolls of barbed wire. But when I walked into the arrivals lounge, the bloke holding the sign with my name on it looked more like a cross between Jim Morrison and Charles Manson. I remember thinking, there's no way this guy is ex-special ops. But then, the more we talked, the more I realized that he was every bit as legit as he'd been

made out to be. His name was Jason, but everyone called him Top because he retired as a First Sergeant. He was also the Top guy when it came to international recruits, so I suppose taking his title as a moniker just made things easier for people. He was in his 40s, had shoulder-length graying brown hair that was receding up top, and then a bushy coppery beard that was a silvery gray around his chin. With his bead bracelets, lion claw necklace, and tea shade glasses, he resembled some kind of New Age safari torus. But the lingo he used, the way he carried himself and the fact that he was almost fluent in the local language, all made me think,

yeah, this blokes the real deal. From Goma Airport, we traveled by minibus to a much smaller airstrip in the southern section of Varunga National Park. The journey took around two hours, giving Top and I plenty of time to get acquainted after he filled me in on what to expect. We'd be flying over Lake Edward before landing at a ranger base camp at a place called Ishangu. There I'd join several other foreign volunteers in training and mentoring the rangers, but most importantly, I'd also be going on patrol with them, and going on patrol meant

getting into scraps. Top made that abundantly clear to me. If I went on patrol, there wasn't merely a chance that I'd be exchanging fire with poachers or rebels. It was a certainty. And after arriving at the airstrip and taking to the skies in a small single-engine air taxi, I got a lesson in just how enormous Africa really is.

For scale, the largest lake in England is Lake Windermere at 5.7 square miles, and comparatively the largest lake in Scotland is Loch Lomond, which clocks in at a whopping 27 square miles. But then Lake Edward, which separates the northern and southern portions of Virunga National Park, has a jaw-dropping surface area of 897 square miles. At one point, while we were flying over it in what amounted to a rusty tin bucket with a propeller attached, it looked like we were out at sea, flying across the friggin' Atlantic or something. You could only barely see land off to our left, and the invisible shores off to our right were

so far away that they weren't even in the Congo anymore. They were in Rwanda. Top and our pilot seemed to find a great deal of amusement at how anxious I was. I'm ex-army, not ex-RAF, but flying over Lake Edward was smooth sailing compared to our landing at Ishongo. It was still early morning when I arrived, but the camp was alive with activity. In one corner, nestled among some trees, were a grouping of small homes occupied by the two dozen rangers which were permanently stationed there. The much newer volunteer accommodation was about a hundred feet away on the other side of the solar panels which supplied most of our electricity. There

was a mess hall, sanitation pits, wash facilities, and an armory, along with medical facilities, a comm center, and even a football pitch the blokes used for recreation. I remember being impressed by what amounted to a pretty decent setup, one that was much better than any of the forward operating bases I'd seen in Afghanistan. But what I was really excited to do was meet some of the lads I'd be working with. The first, and probably the book that I spent the most time with, was an Irishman I'll just call him, Paddy. Now Paddy wasn't his real name, but as an Irish Army reservist, he didn't have the

proper permission to take part in a foreign conflict. Now, Paddy wasn't his real name, but as an Irish Army reservist, he didn't have the proper permission to take part in a foreign conflict. And that meant, should the Irish Army have found out what he was doing, he could have potentially gotten himself into a fair bit of trouble. He was a great soldier, a good lad, loved the crack as they say, and he was a huge fan of English football too, so that gave us plenty to talk about right away. Then there was the Ginger Lad from Texas with a backward name. Everyone called him Tanner, which I assumed was his last name, but then his full name turned out to be Tanner Scott. I asked him if some sort of mistake had been made on his birth certificate,

because surely his name should have been Scott Tanner, but surprisingly he couldn't see the joke. What he could do, on the other hand, was shoot the RSF a fly at 300 yards, which Because surely his name should have been Scott Tanner, but surprisingly he couldn't see the joke. What he could do, on the other hand, was shoot the arasafa fly at 300 yards, which meant that I didn't give a toss my jokes didn't land, as long as shots like that did. Then there was Manu, the French bloke, who said that he'd fought in Malia before hearing about the plight of the Varunga Rangers. And then there was Nick, another American who was a massive animal lover and Tanner's polar opposite in almost every conceivable way.

They had their fair share of disagreements, but there was a mutual respect between the two of them, so they worked well as a team. But perhaps the most intriguing of all the blokes on my training team was Yuri. Yuri was an absolute unit of a man, who looked a bit like the bloke Jason Momoa played in Game of Thrones. He claimed he was a mercenary, and sounded very, very Russian, but then when I asked whereabouts in Russia he was from, he almost blew a casket. He said he wasn't Russian, that he hated Russians, and that he was from a place called Moldova, where hating Russians was a sort of national tradition.

And after that I thought that he'd got the hump with me, but it turns out that was basically Yuri's default mood, at least when dealing with humans, anyway. And that's because Yuri, despite being built like a brick outhouse, was a vegetarian, and when it came to loving animals, Yuri made Nick look like Colonel Bloody Sanders. And unlike the rest of us who were only too happy to take the Foundation's money in exchange for our services, Urie had volunteered in the truest sense of the word, as in he was working completely free of charge.

Thanks to his exceptionally dodgy line of employment, he didn't need the Foundation's money. The only reason he was there was because he loved animals, and he despised what the poachers and rebels were doing. Then when I asked him how he reconciled his love of nature with his penchant for killing poachers, he told me something I never forgot. "'The poachers are like rats,' he said. "'They will kill the elephant and gorilla until none remain.'

Then what will they do? When they have nothing left to sell and nothing to eat, they will only slaughter each other. Better to send them to hell now while their bellies are still full. We'd all fought in our fair share of mostly pointless bullcrap wars, most of which were based on lies and greed of course, so to be somewhere we'd chosen, doing something good for once, it felt like it was good for our souls. But if it was good for our souls, it certainly wasn't easy on our minds or bodies. Patrolling the banks of the Semliki River could be tough going, but then hiking up into

the foothills of the Hrenzori Mountains had us absolutely gassed. The wildlife was a huge problem, quite literally when it came to the likes of elephants and hippos who can become very aggressive when they feel you're getting a little too close to them or they're young. I was probably the most afraid of things like spiders and scorpions, but ironically, while their bites and stings could be incredibly painful, they weren't the things that you had to really keep your eyes peeled for. It was the snakes, like the Gaboon Viper, which posed the most significant threat to our well-being.

Mainly because they could be so well camouflaged among fallen leaves that by the time you do see them it's far too late and a routine patrol suddenly becomes a casualty evacuation, because you might just lose your leg, or arm, or whatever it's bitten, unless you get fast treatment. We were told that the bats who roosted up in the trees and the forest were riddled with things like rabies and even Ebola, and that if we got guano anywhere on our bare skin, especially around our mouths and faces, we were to report to the medics immediately because it was a potentially life-threatening level of exposure. the medics immediately because it was a potentially life-threatening level of exposure. We were also told to be on the lookout for bees and wasps nests because, if disturbed, their African variant had been known to pursue interlopers relentlessly before stinging them

to death. And we had to worry about aggressive monkeys or baboons and the crowned eagles that nested up in the mountains could blind you in a dive bomb attack launched from nests that you wandered too close to. We also had to keep away from the freshwater snails who carried parasites that make death feel preferable to going to the toilet. But without a doubt, the thing that scared me the most were the tsetse flies. Tsetse flies are a little bit like horseflies in that they're the size of a housefly but will give you a pretty nasty bite.

However, unlike horseflies, who as far as I know can't pass on any disease, titsi flies can pass on a nasty little parasite which causes something called sleeping sickness. The early signs are things like headaches, high temperatures, and joint pain. And so at first it seems like little more than a stubborn cold. But then later, once the parasite invades the central nervous system, it can cause some horrifying symptoms. I'm talking about things like distinct and frightening personality changes, mobility issues, and a sudden desire to sleep during the day and stay awake during the night. Then without treatment, the afflicted can grow weaker and weaker until they pass into

a coma and die. Seeing as there are no vaccines for the disease, everyone at base camp, Congolese included, were absolutely terrified of titsy fly bites and the sleeping sickness they caused. But thankfully, preventative measures meant no one came down with it. At least not while I was there anyway. Those were just the natural hazards that we had to worry about, but it was the unnatural ones that posed much more of an active and deadly threat. I remember the first time that we were out on patrol, the first of many sniper's bullets

whistled past me. We were walking through fairly long grass at the time, so we were able to hit the deck and wait it out until it was safe to get moving again. Usually speaking, a small group of poachers would see a much larger range of patrol and take a couple of potshots at them and then just scarper while we were all in cover. There were terrible shots, and probably didn't even zero their weapons properly because who needs accuracy when you're shooting an elephant. But that being said, it never failed to get the blood pumping whenever you heard that crack or whiz depending on how close the shot came.

Back when I was in the army, if we took shots from a sniper, we'd have our machine gunners ripping up the horizon or we'd be calling in airstrikes on positions we even thought might be occupied by said sniper. But then, with the Varunga Rangers, we had to hold our fire as much as possible out of consideration for the wildlife. The poachers shot at whatever the hell they wanted, whereas we had to be absolutely certain about our targets and we couldn't open fire. It was very reminiscent of Afghanistan, so it was something I could adjust to. What I couldn't adjust to was almost being completely outgunned by the enemy.

The rangers' armaments consisted of mostly AK variants, be they Chinese or Eastern block, and then a few shotguns and scoped hunting rifles for close quarters or long-distance engagements. The poachers' rebel allies, on the other hand, were able to field light machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades, and even light artillery in the form of 82mm mortars. I'd had mortars fired at me in Afghanistan so again, I knew exactly what to expect. But as it turned out, getting shelled in the Congo was a hell of a lot different than getting shelled in the Congo was a hell of a lot different than getting shelled in Afghanistan.

I remember the first time it happened we were patrolling the gentler slopes near the base of the Renzori Mountains, and this was always risky, as the heavily armed rebel group made the mountains their HQ. But it was a case of either putting on a show of force, or show we weren't afraid of them, or they'd take it as permission to run riot in the park's northern sector and lay waste to the many families of elephants who made it their home. So there were 14 of us walking up and down the slopes, me, Patty and Tanner, then 11 Varunga Rangers.

We hadn't had any trouble patrolling the forests, but then we had to clear quite a large area of mostly open ground to make sure that the poachers hadn't left any traps behind. We'd been plodding through this field of long grass for a few minutes when I suddenly heard what I thought was a light aircraft passing overhead. My eyes darted upwards, but despite the clear blue sky I couldn't see anything flying in the air above me. But that thought must have lasted no more than half a second because as I heard the noise take on that telltale descending drone of incoming ordnance, I knew what was coming.

I just never heard a mortar shell scream like that as it came hurtling down towards me and the sound it made was nothing short of petrifying. Afghanistan is a dry place, so when something flies down from the sky at you, it makes a very distinct hissing or whistling sound. But in the Congo, it was so damp that the humidity affected the sound of incoming shells. That dry hissing before something exploded was bad enough in Afghanistan, but the shriek those mortar shells made in the Congo made it feel like the rebels were firing freaking banshees at us. They'd scream this three second long sphincter puckering wail that sounded to us like, we're

coming to get you. And that, let me assure you, was somehow far worse than getting next to no warning at all. And then unlike Afghan, there were trees everywhere for the mortars to smash into, and when they did, the explosion would send a shower of splinters into whoever was unlucky enough to be standing under said trees. I saw some pretty horrific injuries in Afghanistan, but nothing like what I saw in the Congo. All the rangers wore soft covers, either khaki bush hats or their signature forest green berets.

So when mortars or RPGs exploded in the trees above them, they were incredibly vulnerable to the shrapnel and splinters that came tearing down through the canopy. I saw a bloke with a splinter the size of my arm sticking out of his face. It severed his spine so severely that he'd essentially been internally decapitated as it drove its way into his body, the only mercy being that it was quick and relatively a painless death. Another ranger was not so lucky. A rebel RPG gunner scored a direct hit on the tree that he was taking cover behind.

The warhead shaped charge punched through the trunk like it was nothing and cut the ranger in half at the waist. It only managed to drag half of him out of the fight and he stayed alive and in pain for a shockingly long time. The rest we had to leave for the animals. Nick, the bleeding heart American lad, took a bullet through the shin during a patrol along the river. They punched such a big hole through his leg that we thought that he was going to lose

it and as the massive, definitely not Russian, Yuri tied the tourniquet around his leg and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, he was swearing and shouting, my mom's going to be so mad at me. It's weird where your mind goes in moments like that. You take a bullet through the leg fighting poachers in Africa, but all you can think about is your old mom back home and what she's going to think about it. Not the months of surgery and rehab or the risk of infection. You think about your mom.

But without a doubt, the scariest thing that happened when I was in the Congo happened towards the end of my six month stay. We were manning some listening posts out in the forest overnight, maybe 10 to 15 miles away from the mountains. It was something the rangers had taken to doing in order to intercept the poachers who'd sneak down the mountains during the wee small hours of the morning before preying on animals at dawn. The tactic has proved very effective already, but they wanted to know if there was anything

they could improve on in terms of positioning and procedure. So me, Patty and Yuri ended up going out there with them one night. Night time in a war zone is always very frightening, and any little sound scares the shite out of you. Then, factor in that we were in Africa Africa with all kinds of massive creepy crawlies skittering around our wee fighting holes and it made for some pretty scary moments. But none more frightening than the time we got ambushed whilst in pitch darkness. We were in our fighting holes, all spaced out over three-quarters of a mile when one of the

rangers started keying his radio handset. A soldier might do this if he suddenly spotted the enemy so close to him that he can't talk, or the enemy might hear him, so as you can imagine we were expecting a scrap. But when it came, it wasn't the usual chaos we'd grown used to. It was surgical. One Congolese ranger got shot in the chest. Then when we all dived into cover, another ranger leaned out from the tree that he was hiding behind in the hopes of catching sight of a muzzle flash.

But no sooner than he did, he took a bullet right between the eyes. That's when I realized whoever was shooting had some sort of night vision capability. They could see us, but we couldn't see them. It must have been like shooting fish in a barrel to be honest. Rangers who exposed themselves to try and suppress the shooter were almost immediately cut down. Then as we all turned tail and fled, we were doubly exposed. As we ran, more and more of us fell, and for the first time I was certain that the next bullet had my name on it. For the first time, I was certain that the next bullet had my name on it. They were loud, blood-curdling cracks as bullets passed inches over our heads, and then ear-splitting

screams or anguished grunts whenever one found its mark. It was easily the single scariest combat experience I had ever endured, and to this day, I'm not sure how I was able to walk away from it unscathed. Not when so many others didn't. There were about twenty rangers manning the listening post that night. Twenty men who converged on one position with the goal of overwhelming what we assumed was a much smaller force. But it was us that ended up getting overwhelmed.

Of the twenty men that went out into the forest that night, only six returned, and unfortunately Yuri wasn't one of them. He wasn't the first foreign volunteer to make the ultimate sacrifice for Varunga and its animals, and I doubt that he'll be the last, but he was the only man to give his life when I was there, so I imagine I'll remember him till the day I die. There were a few more incidents like that, men being inexplicably shot under the cover of darkness, and then one day they just stopped. We went back to owning the night again.

The poachers and rebels didn't seem quite so bold anymore, and although that obviously made us all very happy, it left us asking a lot of questions. How had the rebels suddenly got their hands on night vision equipment? And why had they suddenly opted not to use it anymore? They weren't exactly short of cash for the most part, and nor were they professional soldiers, so it was possible they'd bought themselves some expensive thermal imaging equipment only to break it through in proper use or lack of maintenance. The theory swirled for a while, and then one day, Top, the coordinator for the foreign

volunteers who met me at the airport, said he'd heard a chilling rumor on the SOF grapevine. Apparently a group of Chinese mercenaries had signed a short-term contract to work somewhere in the Congo. The Chinese have been pretty heavily involved in Sub-Saharan Africa for a while now, with their Road and Belt initiative, so it wasn't out of the question that a Chinese based private military contractor were operating in the region. But when one ex-SOF guy heard that they were headed to North Kivu, exactly where the Burunga National Park is, to North Kivu, exactly where the Burunga National Park is, he figured that was information we needed to know.

Unfortunately, we got the news way too late, what as any soldier might tell you, that's something you get used to in a conflict zone. The thing I couldn't get my head around was the fact that we might well have almost been ambushed and killed by Chinese special forces, either former or serving. We'd heard rumors that the poachers had backing from wealthy Chinese smuggling outfits who were heavily invested in the importation of rare animal parts, but for the longest time we'd considered it just that, a rumor and nothing more. Yet what happened that night at the listening posts, as in the speed and precision with which we were ambushed, had made me a firm believer and makes me think that there's

a much more shadowy game being played. After I got home, I read a book about the scramble for Africa, which was the rush by European powers to colonize the continent in the late 19th century. My intention was to learn more about the place I'd almost died in, but all it did was make me consider the present. It seems to me like there's a new scramble for Africa, and the intentions of the countries involved this time are around just as ill as those who took part in the first. Born on September 21st of 1940, Lowell Lee Andrews' hometown newspaper once described him as the nicest boy in Wolcott, Kansas.

Founded in the mid-19th century, Wolcott was named for the railroad official who lobbied for an extension of the Missouri Pacific Railroad into the area. This allowed it to become closely linked with nearby Kansas City and ever since, it's been considered a sleepy attachment to the city's bustling urban sprawl. It's here that young Lowell Andrews grew up and back in the 50s, Wolcott was still a small, mostly rural portion of Wyandotte County. It was surrounded by farmland and orchards, and despite the construction of a nearby highway, the town was reluctant to urbanize in the same way as other suburbs had. It was a quiet, quaint, and wholesome little town, where young Lowell's intellect and music talents were allowed to flourish.

He was a passionate reader, played bassoon in the college band and by the late fall of 1958 an 18 year old Lowell had enrolled at a local college to study biology. But despite outward appearances Lowell did not enjoy his life in Wolcott and was firmly convinced his future lay elsewhere. During late November of 1958 Lowell and his older sister had both returned home to spend Thanksgiving weekend with their parents. 20-year-old Jenny was enrolled at the University of Kansas where she was studying to become a teacher, and on the evening of Friday, November 28th, she lay on the couch watching TV with

her parents after a dinner of leftover turkey. Lowell on the other hand chose not to join them, and instead sat upstairs in his bedroom reading the final novel of seminal Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky entitled The Brothers Keramosov. Set in 19th century Russia, The Brothers Keramosov is a passionate philosophical novel that discusses questions of God, free will, and mortality. Russia, the Brothers Kirimosov is a passionate philosophical novel that discusses questions of God, free will, and mortality. It has also been described as a theological drama dealing with problems of faith, doubt, and reason in the context of a modernizing Russia, with a plot that revolves around the

subject of patricide. After reaching the novel's conclusion, Loll is believed to have closed it, placed it down on the desk in front of him, and remained in silent thought for a prolonged period of time. Lowell then walked into the bathroom, lathered up his face, and shaved using his father's safety razor. He did so with precision and care, ensuring that there was no errant whiskers or accidental cuts.

Then once completed, Lowell walked back to his bedroom and put on the black two-piece suit his parents had purchased him following his college acceptance. Lowell stopped for a moment to inspect himself in a hallway mirror, ensuring that his hair and attire were nothing short of immaculate. And then after opening a closet in his bedroom, Lowell retrieved a.22 caliber semi-automatic rifle and began walking downstairs. There in the Andrews family's living room, his parents and older sister had their eyes fixed on the TV.

They heard Lowell's footsteps in the doorway but didn't turn to look. Since they were watching a movie, and in order to replicate the magic of the movie theater, the Andrews family had turned out their living room lights. When Lowell flicked them on, they vocally protested, but as his mother, father, and sister turned to look at him, looks of terror filled their eyes. Lowell hadn't turned on the lights to ruin their movie experience. He turned them on in order to better aim his rifle. The first of Lull's bullets punched through the skull of his older sister, killing her

instantly. Sprawled out on the couch and in direct view of Lull as he walked into the living room, she presented the easiest and most obvious target. Lowell's parents, on the other hand, died much, much harder. Lowell put three quick bullets into his 50-year-old father, William, and then did the same to his 42-year-old mother, Opal Andrews, as she tried to shield her husband's body. Lowell took a moment to calm himself before beginning the next phase of his plan and approached a living room window before hearing movement coming from behind him. He returned to find that somehow his mother had survived her injuries and after staggering

to her feet she lunged at him. In little more than a second, Lawl Andrews put three more bullets into the woman that had raised him. She fell to the floor, took her final breaths, and then passed away. Lowell stared at her lifeless body for a moment, regarding his murdered mother with a chilling lack of emotion. Seconds later, he heard more movement behind him. Lowell turned, only to see his bleeding father crawling towards the kitchen telephone. He took aim, sending multiple.22 caliber bullets into his father until his ammunition

ran dry. He then took out a Ruger.22 caliber pistol from his hip holster and emptied all of its bullets into his father's back. It was a brutally cold-hearted execution, but Lowell wasn't done there. When his pistol quit firing, he ejected the empty clip, loaded a fresh one, then began shooting into his father's lifeless body almost at random. A homicide detective later said that it was as if Lowell had wanted to observe the damage his shots inflicted to different parts of his father's body.

A sickening experiment performed on the man who raised him. Lowell fired a total of six shots at his mother, but seventeen at his father. Then when all was said and done, he began staging the scene, to make it appear as if a household burglary had somehow gone horribly wrong. He opened a window in the family living room, then stacked garden furniture outside it, intent on giving the impression that someone had climbed through the window while the family were dozing. Police were meant to assume that an outnumbered home invader had panicked upon waking the

family and in the ensuing chaos had murdered them one by one. Lowell then drove over to his apartment in the nearby town of Lawrence, Kansas where he began to establish his alibi. Having lent a friend his precious typewriter, he arranged to pick it up that evening under the pretense that he had to write an essay. Then after dropping the typewriter off at his apartment, Lowell visited a local movie theater where he attended a showing of the 1958 movie Mardi Gras. He spoke loudly, imparted friendly greetings to other theatergoers, and placed himself in the very rear of the theater so that everyone filing out at its conclusion would see him seated quite prominently

at the back of a well-lit theater. Once the movie was over, Lowell decided to drive to the banks of the Kansas River, where he dismantled the weapons used to murder his family and tossed the separate parts off the Massachusetts Street Bridge. He then returned to his apartment, telephoned local law enforcement, and informed them that he strongly suspected his parents' house had just been burgled. However, when the police arrived at his apartment and were forced to pass on the bad news of his family's murder, they observed that Law expressed only

the slightest amount of surprise. Yet not only did Law seem unperturbed at what would normally be considered devastating news, there was barely a hint of emotion about him. When asked how he knew of the potential break-in at his parents' home, Law began obfuscating. Then once he admitted his 911 call was prompted by what he called a bad feeling, he was promptly arrested as the case's primary suspect. Lost in police custody, Law vehemently protested his innocence. He claimed that he had a falling out with his parents prior to Thanksgiving and hadn't

been over to their place in weeks, but the fact that Lahl seemed to have had a mysterious premonition regarding the incident which led to his parents and sisters' deaths was extremely incriminating. Homicide detectives pressed him for hours, demanding to know why and how Lahl had killed his family. It took the intervention of the family's minister, a pastor, Vertio C. Dameron, to finally coerce a confession from who he'd once considered a promising young man. Dameron reportedly gave the boy a coke before asking him, You didn't do this terrible thing, did you?

If you did, now's the time to purge your soul. Lowell might have finally admitted to the murder of his mother, father, and sister, but the confession was completely devoid of remorse. Lowell told police officers, I'm not sorry, but I'm not glad I did it either. I just don't know why I did it. I didn't even feel anything as they died. At his trial, the defense argued that Pastor Dameron's testimony of Lowell's confession should be stricken from the record.

They further explained that Pastor Dameron, quote, occupied the role of minister of the church of which the defendant was a member, essentially claiming the relationship had unspoken confidentiality, similar to that which exists between a doctor and a patient. But as Pastor Dameron himself asserted, there was no course of discipline in the Baptist Church by which a member thereof was enjoined to confess his sins to a minister of the Church. The advice of his defense team, Law pled not guilty to reason of insanity, and was subsequently sent for tests at the Menninger Clinic in Topeka, Kansas.

It was here that Dr. Joseph Satin established that Andrews was almost certainly schizophrenic, but that he had been completely compos mentis, or of composed mind, at the time that he murdered his family. Dr. Satin went on to call Andrews's crime a sudden murder, meaning his behavior had been perfectly regular both before and after his family's slaughter. This led the doctor to believe the state was well within its right to prosecute Law to the full extent of the law, in which they promptly did. After taking the stand, Law's pleas of insanity fell on deaf ears, and following his conviction,

he was condemned to be executed. After his request for clemency was denied by the state's governor, Law was asked about his family's funeral arrangements. I don't care what you do with them, he said. Then when asked if he had any regrets regarding the murders, he stated, "...I didn't feel anything about it. The time came and I was doing what I had to do. That's all there was to it."

After further appeals for clemency were disregarded by the U.S. Supreme Court, Law Lee Andrews was executed by hanging on November 30th of 1962, aged just 22. His last meal consisted of two fried chickens with sides of mashed potatoes, green beans, and pie a la mode, and he gave no last words. Those in attendance gave eerie accounts of Law's final moments, with one reporter stating he was, and I quote, outwardly remorseless and disinterested. Another reporter, this one from the Associated Press, said Law was actually smiling slightly as he was led to the gallows.

Because Law was a hefty six foot one and 250 pounds, it's believed that he had to hang for some time before he was pronounced dead. Other witnesses claimed the rope actually broke, but despite their proliferation, such rumors were never confirmed. Lowell Andrews was one of the last people to be executed in the state of Kansas. He was subsequently buried next to his parents and sister in the Mount Salem Cemetery in Excello, Missouri. The three family members were labeled on a single tombstone. Low's separate tombstone lies parallel and is engraved with a single word, sun. Prior to his execution, Low was detained at the Lansing Correctional Facility, the very

same place as the murders of the Clutter family were being held, Richard Hickok and Perry Smith. Hickok and Smith had been made infamous following the release of Truman Capote's book, In Cold Blood, with a former being asked what he thought of Loll Andrews following numerous daily interactions with him. He was a funny kid, Hickok said. He had no respect for human life, not even his own. Hey friends, thanks for listening. Don't forget to hit that follow button to be alerted of our weekly episodes every Tuesday

at 1pm EST. And if you haven't already, check out Let's Read on YouTube where you can catch all my new video releases every Monday and Thursday at 9 p.m. EST Thanks so much friends, and I'll see you in the next episode