The Lets Read Podcast - 302: SOMETHING REALLY BAD HAPPENED IN THAT BASEMENT | 14 TERRIFYING True Scary Stories | EP 288

Episode Date: July 15, 2025

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about Craigslist & Christmas 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

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to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with iGaming Ontario. Almost 20 years ago, I was about 6 months into living with my first serious boyfriend when I suggested that we adopt a puppy I'd always wanted a dog, but I also knew it'd be a great chance to see how ready for parenthood my boyfriend was And so we adopted Oscar a Jack Russell puppy and after we both fell in love with him down at the pound From the moment we got him home. He became our very own tiny bundle of energy and mischief. With his bright eyes, perky ears, and playful demeanor, he kept us on our toes and filled each and every day with love, laughter, and reasonably small poops.

But Oscar had a flaw, one big one. And while he adored my boyfriend and I, he despised the rats and mice that lived out back near our apartment building's dumpsters. We used to let him poop outside as part of his potty training, rewarding him with treats and penning him whenever he did so. But this one time, Oscar quite literally smelled a rat by the dumpsters and since Jack Russells were basically bred to be little vermin killers, something in Oscar's genetic memory set him off the edge. He used to bark at the dumpsters every time we took him outside and since our apartment

was on the ground floor, that was a daily event. But if we thought that he went crazy over just the scent of rats, it was nothing compared to how he reacted when he actually saw one. After that, the back of our building became a war zone and after Oscar chased a rat so hard that he tried jumping over a fence to pursue it, we knew that we couldn't risk taking him back there again. If he got over that fence he'd be gone and there'd be nothing between him and the highway, which as you can imagine wasn't a prospect that we wanted to entertain even for a second.

Well one day the unthinkable happened. We woke up and Oscar was gone. My boyfriend somehow failed to close the back door properly when he came home drunk the previous night, and then while we were asleep Oscar had gotten out and had either jumped over the fence chasing those rats, had found a gap in it to wiggle through, or even worse, someone had stolen him. And I was distraught, and so mad at my boyfriend. I didn't say a single word to him until he promised with all of his heart and soul to bring Oscar home or die trying.

And yes, the die trying part was overly dramatic, but I appreciate how sorry he was, and I also appreciated the amount of effort he put into searching the neighborhood, knocking on doors and putting up missing posters. But my boyfriend didn't stop there. He even went so far as to upload a missing dog post on our local Craigslist page. In a post titled, Lost Dog, my boyfriend uploaded a picture of Oscar along with his last known location. We also offered a reward to anyone who could reunite us with him and then over the next

24 hours or so I was asking, has anyone replied about every 10 minutes or so? My boyfriend wouldn't say it, but I knew it was wrong to get my hopes up so much. Missing pet stories rarely ever end well, and I knew in my heart of hearts that my boyfriend was putting all that effort in purely out of guilt, not out of any genuine hope that we could bring Oscar home safely. But then, not even 48 hours later, my boyfriend got an email from someone who claimed to have found Oscar. The email basically said,

Hi there. I found a small dog wandering near the highway just the other day, so I put him in my truck and drove him home. A friend then told me about a lost dog post that she'd spotted on Craigslist, and after checking it for myself, I realized that the dog I found was Oscar. He even responds to that name. The emailer left a phone number for us to call him on, then after dialing it, my boyfriend and I were both ecstatic. The man on the other end of the phone sounded much older than us and had a very gruff voice, but he was also exceptionally friendly.

He told us he'd be taking care of Oscar in our absence, feeding him cooked chicken and taking him for very careful walks using a leash that he'd made out of rope. Once I'd made a note of his address and promised the man that we'd swing by in the next few hours, I hung up and the relief just poured over me. I thanked my boyfriend for all he'd done and told him that he was completely and utterly forgiven for letting Oscar slip out the back door. I then told him pretty much everything the guy had told me. But when I was done, there were two points my boyfriend seemed very unsure of. The first was that the guy had mentioned keeping Oscar in his basement.

of. The first was that the guy had mentioned keeping Oscar in his basement. And to me, this didn't raise any red flags as the guy didn't know how far along Oscar was with his potty training and was probably keeping him in his basement to contain any sort of mess. And I remember my boyfriend saying something like, Oscar's in his basement? Why? If he's taking him for regular walks, Oscar won't even try to go to the bathroom on his couch. Why would he keep him in the basement? And I told him my own opinions on it and how that didn't bother me too much, but then the next thing that seemed to sort of dampen my boyfriend's excitement was the area of town that this guy said that he lived at. He said something such as,

That's not a great part of town, you shouldn't go alone. Now I wasn't born and raised where we were living at the time, so I'd always defer to him when it came to local knowledge, and I was more than happy to go alone if it meant him not having to cancel plans, but in the end, he insisted. A few hours later, as we were driving towards the man's address, the streets became increasingly desolate. The houses were old and sagging, many with boarded up windows and overgrown yards. I checked the address again on my phone, hoping that I'd made a mistake, but no, it was right. My boyfriend pulled the car up to the curb in front of this very dilapidated house.

The paint was peeling, the lawn was a jungle of just weeds, and the porch light flickered weakly even though it was still daytime. A man stood in the doorway waving at us. He looked ordinary enough, mid-forties, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, but something about him felt very off. The man smiled, showing crooked teeth, and said Oscar was downstairs, and he motioned for us to come inside. The house looked even worse up close.

The windows were dirty, the porch creaked under my feet, and a faint mildew smell came from the open door. I stopped and looked at my boyfriend and he gave me a small shake of his head. I asked if the man could just bring Oscar upstairs instead. His smile faded for a moment but he said it was no problem and again told us to come in, sounding more insistent this time. My boyfriend spoke up and his voice was firm as he said we wouldn't go inside and then we'd wait outside instead And the man's mood changed He didn't seem as friendly anymore and looked a little annoyed

He said okay, and then went back into the house leaving the door open My boyfriend leaned over toward me and whispered that something felt very off and that we should just leave. I whispered back saying that we couldn't just leave without checking if Oscar was really there. My heart was pounding, torn between hope and fear. And we waited, but the man didn't come back. Minutes passed and my boyfriend checked his watch. His face was serious as he said, we're leaving. And before I could say anything,

the man came back to the doorway, and his face was blank now. No sign of the friendliness from earlier. He asked very flatly if we weren't coming in after all, and my boyfriend repeated that we weren't. And we started to walk away. But the man just stared at us as we left. Then as we reached the car, he called out in a very casual tone, but something about it felt wrong. Like there was more behind his words. And we drove off in silence.

My chest felt tight and I couldn't decide if I was more upset or just uneasy. After a while, my boyfriend broke that silence and he said he didn't think the man ever even had Oscar. The house, the neighborhood, the way that guy acted it all just seemed like some big trap and the thought made my skin crawl and all of the confusion of that day and I couldn't stop wondering what might have happened if we had gone inside. And that night I couldn't sleep. My mind kept replaying everything, especially the way the man's face changed when we said no. I kept asking myself what would have happened if we'd stayed, and the next morning still felt uneasy. I looked up that house online and my stomach dropped when I saw that it had been foreclosed

years ago. It wasn't supposed to have anyone living inside of it. I called the police and told them what happened and they said they checked it out but they didn't seem very worried I guess. A week later an officer called me back and they said they'd found something in the house but wouldn't say what. All they told me was that I was lucky not to have gone inside. We never found Oscar.

And sometimes late at night I think about that man in that doorway. I wonder how many people weren't as lucky as us and how close I came to being one of them. Christmas of 2013 started as a very special one for me and my young family. My wife and I had recently moved into our starter home with our four-year-old son and it marked our first Christmas in a house of our very own. So to mark the occasion and show off the new place a little, my wife not only decked our halls with boughs of holly, among other things, she organized an extensive list of holiday visitors, featuring an all-star cast of our friends, family, and new neighbors. First we had my wife's side of the family come over in early December.

We'd spent Christmas with them the previous, and since we wanted to enjoy our first holiday season in the new house We made arrangements to have dinner and swap gifts during that first weekend of the month They arrived in force to her parents her siblings her cousins and all the associated Offspring showed up with anyone over five feet carrying a Christmas gift for our four-year-old boy He was still very much the baby of the family at that point, as all of his cousins were fast approaching middle school, so when I say my wife's side of the family wanted to spoil him, you can trust that they spoiled

him pretty good. They left quite a pile of gift-wrapped boxes under our tree, and most of them were addressed to our son, but I appreciated that more than any gift they could have gotten me. And next up were some old college buddies of ours. My wife and I met during our time at LSU so we shared quite a large group of mutual friends and then the weekends after her family came over we welcomed them over for drinks and dinner. Seven of them showed up, all bearing gifts, and just like my wife's family, they seemed

intent on spoiling our young son. The pile under our Christmas tree grew even larger, and there was something so magical about having something that you might see on the cover of a Christmas card right there in your own home. You see, during my childhood, Christmas wasn't a particularly joyous time of year, not for my family anyway. I remember having a few years of Merry Christmases with my mom, myself, and my little sister all opening up presents on Christmas morning.

And then, in 1994, when I was just about to turn eight, my sister passed away under tragic circumstances and things were never the same again. Christmas became an incredibly painful time of year, particularly for my mom, who'd taken to drinking to dull the pain of my sister's loss. Other kids looked forward to the holidays, but I didn't, because despite everything my aunts, uncles, and grandparents did for us around that time of year, it was still hell on my mom and dad. Despite many years of trying, none of us ever really got over it.

Mom let the booze get the better of her and her health declined rapidly, and dad stuck by her till the very end and then died of a heart attack on the fourth anniversary of her death. From 16 to 18 I live with my aunt, pouring myself into my schoolwork by way of an escape, and it was only during my senior year of college that I actually started to feel some semblance of normalcy again. Almost like how the feeling returns to your arm or leg after it's fallen asleep. My wife and I have been dating since our senior year of college, but it wasn't until we were

engaged to be married that I told her about my past. I told her about the slow death of my mother, the sudden death of my father, and the tragic circumstances in which my sister passed. And I bared my soul, and she still accepted me for who I was. And after that, there's never been a single day that I've questioned my decision to marry her. She understood better than anyone that Christmas' past had been very painful for me, and that the key to dealing with that trauma was to turn Christmas' present into occasions of

light, laughter, and love. Seeing all those presents under our tree wasn't simply a generous gesture toward young parents. It was fixing me, one gift-wrapped box at a time. And as I said earlier, my wife had quite the visitor's schedule laid out for us. Once we'd spend the weekend with her family, we still had arrangements with my cousins, a group of family friends we hadn't seen in a while, as well as groups of our respective co-workers who all stopped by for eggnog and Christmas cookies. On top of that, neighbors from up and down the street started knocking on our door in

their ones and twos throughout the month of December, all bearing holiday gifts for the newest family on the block. By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, a pile of Christmas presents under our tree had progressed from a humble collection of gift wrap boxes to a knee-high mountain range of smaller and larger packages all stacked on top of one another. Our son was so excited to open all of his gifts the next morning, and as we laid him down to sleep that night, my wife and I shared a moment of appreciation over just how far

we'd come. The vast majority of those gifts were addressed to our son, and by that point, that was so many that we'd almost completely lost track of who'd given them to us. Some of the gifts had tags that said nothing but a name, be it mine, my wife's, or our son's, but even those were mostly addressed to the boy.

I couldn't wait to see his face when we opened them all together, and as I lay in bed with my wife that night, I remember her frantically freeing up space on her phone so she could record the very frantic paper-tearing festivities in high definition widescreen. There was, however, one little gift-wrapped box under that tree that was addressed to me, but if I'd have known what was in it, there's no way I'd have gotten even a wink of sleep that night. We don't know how long it had been sitting there, not exactly anyway. My wife and I don't remember seeing it in anybody's hand, nor did we recognize the handwriting

on the tag. And so as I opened it, I had no idea what it might be or who it might be from. But as I tore off the wrapping paper and took off the box's lid, it wasn't a gift that I was opening. It was a wound. I didn't open any of my gifts right away. I was having too much fun watching our son open his. After that, I made my wife and I some coffee and then we started working our way through the remaining gifts.

Until finally, I was faced with a small rectangular box about the size of a Pringles can, which had a tag with my name on it. And the giver hadn't left their name, and unlike most of the other gifts, which had been wrapped in colorful pattern festive themed paper, the plain paper on this one was a dull mustard yellow. And after my wife suggested I open it, I remember giving the box a very theatrical shake. Whatever was inside wasn't heavy, and from the shape of the box, I figured that it might have been some bougie lamb's wool socks, which I am very much a fan. But when I removed the yellow wrapping paper and gently pulled away the box's lid, I think I just... froze.

My wife later told me that, at first, she thought it was some hideously expensive silk tie as one of my dreams is to actually own a silk tie from London's Turnbull and Asser, and she says my face just went blank as I stared at the object in the box. Then, before she got up off the couch and walked over to see what it was, I closed the lid, shook my head and began shakily whispering, No, as I gently prevented her from taking it. I'm currently writing from the perspective of my wife because my own recollection of those events is somewhat hazy, and I

remember unwrapping the plain yellow gift wrap, opening up the box, and seeing an old grimy looking Barbie doll sitting inside, and then after that everything gets a little foggy. The next thing I remember is the brandy burning my taste buds while my wife asked me what was wrong, and it was impossible to say it at first. I didn't want to believe it was real, and saying it out loud seemed like a cursed incantation that had dragged the concept through the ether of possibility and firmly into reality. But in the end, I had to tell her. The old Barbie doll in the fancy gift-wrapped box had belonged to my little sister, who

as I said earlier died many years earlier under tragic circumstances. But that term tragic circumstances was little more than a cuddly euphemism for what had actually happened. My sister hadn't just died. She hadn't succumbed to some rare disease or been involved in a horrible accident. My little sister had been abducted and murdered. Back when I was just seven years old, my dad drove me over to the mall one Saturday to pick up a new pair of sneakers.

Afterwards, we were set to go meet my mom and sister at a playground in our local park. But when we arrived, the first thing I remember noticing was how half a dozen cop cars were parked in the lot that we turned into, and how the officers that rode in them were talking to lots of worried-looking people. But without a doubt, the most worried looking of all was my own mother. Just around the corner from the playground was a snack stall set into a large wooden area, and at some point my sister complained of being thirsty, so mom walked her to the area to grab some juice and a few snacks.

My little sister proceeds to then drop her juice box on the ground, covering the straw in the dirt and then promptly burst into tears. They're only maybe 20 or 30 feet away from the area when this happens, so my mom heads back to the stall to buy another juice box, and explaining this has my sister going from straight up wailing to just sniffling as she agrees to stay put. Mom said the only reason that she felt comfortable turning her back and leaving her there was the fact that there were quite literally dozens of other people there at the time. The playground was a popular spot for young parents, especially in the summertime, and

everyone seemed to look out for one another's kids. But then somehow, my little sister became the one exception, the one who fell through the cracks of what, up until that point, had been a pretty good system. Because after mom bought that juice box and turned around, my little sister was gone. The cops spent the next couple of hours searching the park for her, praying she'd just gotten herself lost and nothing sinister was to blame. But their prayers were wasted. Her body was found that night, lying among a patch of trees on the other side of the

park, and she'd been stripped, tortured, and then strangled. And her murder has gone unsolved. According to Mom, my sister had brought her Barbie doll to the park with her that day to show off the haircut that she and Mom had given to it. They'd shortened the doll's waist-length blonde hair to sit just above her shoulders, just like my sister's was, and she was pretty fond with her new personalized toy. When they found my sister's body, her clothes were lying in a neat folded pile nearby, but her customized Barbie doll was nowhere to be found.

The cops began to suspect the doll had been taken as a kind of souvenir or trophy, and it quickly became a case of, find the doll, and you'll find the killer. The Barbie doll in the yellow gift-wrapped box had the exact same haircut, and I was also willing to bet that the dirt and grime encrusting its now-palette blonde hair was from the very same park my sister was murdered in. My wife suggested that it might have been someone's idea of a sick joke, or that maybe someone wanted to hurt me, I mean really hurt me, by opening up an old wound. A lot of the information regarding my sister's disappearance is freely available through old newspapers and public records, so there was a chance someone had gone through the

archives or police records and then come up with this sinister way to rattle me. But over the course of the next few weeks, that wishful theory was proven definitively false. I contacted the police the following morning and within a week the doll was being analyzed by forensic scientists over in some lab near Baton Rouge. And when I got the call from the detective that we'd been speaking with, the first thing he said after confirming my identity was, you might want to be sitting down for this.

I remember dragging a chair across the kitchen to where our phone was mounted on a wall, and as the detective talked, my wife had her ear pressed up against the handset like we were conjoined twins attached to the scalp, and the forensics people had completed a full analysis of the doll, and this is what they'd concluded. Firstly, the fact that so much forensic evidence was still present on the doll suggested that someone had made every effort to preserve the state in which it was found. Soil samples matched those from the park my sister went missing from, and despite even the most complete fingerprints being next to unusable, they quite clearly belonged to

a child of around four or five years old. One of the forensic scientists suggested that since the doll had been so well preserved for thirty years, there was a chance its adopted owner was familiar with forensic sciences. He'd certainly needed to have treated the doll with great care and reverence to have maintained its condition. But to the detectives, and to me, that only meant one thing. It had been a kind of trophy, and it was so much more than that too.

Its owner had sought to preserve not just an object but a moment in time, and that moment was one in which he'd taken my sister's life. The detectives talked to every single adult that had been in our home over the month of December and then went through hours of footage from the security camera that watched them all arrive, and not one of them was carrying a yellow rectangular box, not visibly anyway, and despite a thorough examination of the box and wrapping paper, neither could be traced to purchases at any local stores. It was frustrating, and I can't help but commend the cops on what a thorough job they did. But in the end, we were all forced to accept that there was no way of knowing who had placed

the yellow box under our tree or how they'd done so. The only thing that they were certain of was that without evidence of some kind of break-in from that month of December, they had no choice but to conclude that, in all likelihood, the person who had placed the box under our tree had done so under the guise of a friendly Christmas visit. Now I'd like to be able to tell you that I handled it well, that I made my mom and dad proud and didn't let it get to me. But I can't say that. I can't say that at all. Obsessing over who had put my sister's doll under my tree and how they'd managed to get

it there without me knowing, it quite literally drove me crazy for a little while. I had to check myself into the Tau Center, which is sort of like a high-end psychiatric hospital near Baton Rouge, with the doctors and nurses slowly piecing me back together like an old jigsaw puzzle. They'd help me find myself again, but there's one thing they couldn't help me with, and that was trusting people. The only person I trusted in the whole world was my wife, and even then, there were one or two moments when I wondered, I mean really wondered, if she was somehow involved in the

murder of my little sister thirty years before. That was me at the worst though, right before I called that center, but after I got out it took less than six months for me to move us all out of state and start a whole new life someplace else. Now I know that might sound a little radical, but with the age of our son it was either do it then and find a top tier school district and our prospective new home, or wait years and risk uprooting our son's social life.

My wife made excuses to our family for me, and saying that we had to move from my job and I just didn't have the heart to tell anyone I didn't trust them anymore. But to me, that's a contender for the worst aspect of this entire story, rivaling even that of my sister's murder. You see, whoever killed her, it felt like they won for a while. They took my sister, waited 30 god-damned years, and then successfully induced a mental breakdown before destroying my life as I knew it.

It's like they waited for decades, patiently biding their time until I finally started to reclaim the holidays from pain and misery. And then they took it all away again. These days we vacation in Mexico over the holidays. My son's 15 now and he and his little sister are more accustomed to tamales than turkey and potatoes. And we love it down there. It's just enough of the holidays for the kids to enjoy it, and it's just different

enough that it doesn't remind me of things from the past. I still think of my sister every so often, and of my mother and father. But these days, with me reminding my son to take care of his little sister, it doesn to find love, I thought it'd be a great idea to check out the personal section on Craigslist. Most of the ads I saw were either blatantly fake or downright creepy, but after scrolling for a while, one caught my eye. It was very short and straightforward. Looking for something casual, just broke up with my boyfriend, don't want anything serious, message me if you're interested.

Something about it seemed genuine and the attached photo sealed the deal. And this girl was gorgeous. Like sort of way out of my league, so I decided that I'd send her a message. She replied almost immediately and things moved fast, really fast, and within a few exchanges, she was sending provocative pictures. I really couldn't believe my luck, but something felled off,

like it was way too good to be true. Now half joking, I sent her a message, if this is real, send me a picture with my name written on a piece of paper. And to my shock she did, and that was really all the proof I needed to know that she was real. We kept talking, and she told me that she wasn't looking for anything serious, just a no-strings-attached hookup. Her ex had just moved out, and she wasn't ready for anything serious, just a no-strings-attached hookup. Her ex had just moved out and she wasn't ready for a relationship, she just wanted to have

some fun. She then gave me her address and told me to come over. And to make sure everything was legit, I called her, and she answered on the first ring, and her voice was just as alluring as her photos. She said that she was at home, waiting for me. It all felt like a dream that I was going to wake up from at any second, but it wasn't. It was real. When I pulled up to that address, it was a quiet suburban neighborhood.

The house looked normal, with a nearly-trimmed lawn and a long driveway. I called her again to let her know that I was there. No answer. I tried again, and still nothing. I started to feel uneasy, but I was convincing myself that I was overthinking. Maybe she was just in the bathroom or had stepped away from her phone. Trying to shake off the nerves, I got out of the car and walked toward the house and that's when I saw them. Two men were standing in the window, staring me down as I walked up the driveway. They each looked extremely sketchy, like they'd stepped straight out of a police lineup and

one had a shaved head and a sort of scowl while the other was very wiry with tattoos covering his arms. And my blood immediately ran cold. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to get out of there. And without a second thought, I turned and sprinted back to my car. My heart pounded as I jumped in, locked the doors, and just sped off. My hands were shaking, and I couldn't stop glancing in the rearview mirror half expecting to see them chasing after me. When I finally got home I tried to calm myself down. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, and maybe those guys had nothing to do with her.

But deep down I knew better. About an hour later I got a text from the girl. You're a loser, it read. That was my boyfriend and we were just messing with you. I stared at the message, feeling a mix of anger and relief. So much for the ex part, right? And I tried to brush it off as some sick joke and they probably got a kick out of scaring guys like me. It was messed up, sure, but at least I was okay, I guess.

But a few days later, local news told a much darker story. A man had answered a Craigslist ad in that same neighborhood, and when he showed up, two men ambushed him. They beat him, robbed him, and left him barely alive, and he ended up in the hospital fighting for his life. The police said it was a set-up, and in the description of the house matched the one that I had been at, and a very cold chill ran down my spine. I couldn't stop thinking about how close I'd come to being their victim.

If I hadn't noticed those guys in the window I might not have made it out, and the thought haunted me for a while. These weren't just pranksters messing around. They were predators, willing to hurt someone for a quick payday. They lured me in with fake promises and a pretty face, and I'd almost fallen for it. Even now I can't shake the memory. The way those men stared at me, unblinking, as if I'd already been caught in their trap, and the relief that I felt when I drove away was replaced by a very sickening realization.

I'd been extremely lucky. The man on the news wasn't so fortunate, and I can't help but wonder how many had fallen for that exact same trap. Christmas of 1974 had been a sweltering one here in Australia's northern coast. I was 32 years old at the time, a young mother with two children, Sarah and Jacob, aged six and four. On my Christmas Eve, both my kids were super excited for the arrival of Santa Claus, and so I was chock-a-block that day with stuff that I still had to get done, but all the while, I kept hearing things that made me a little bit nervous.

Reports of an incoming cyclone had been circulating, but most of us brushed them off. Cyclones aren't heard of around that time of the year, but they mostly veered off or dissipated before causing serious damage. What often started as a cyclone warning mostly ended up being a little bit of wind and rain and very little else. But as the evening sky hung low with a deceptive stillness, we allowed ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of security. That evening, we celebrated Christmas with neighbors.

The kids were excited, running around in their new pajamas while the adults shared drinks and laughed under the glow of the Christmas lights. And by midnight the wind had picked up, rattling windows and bending palm trees. My husband Peter had turned on the radio for updates, and the reports were concerning but still no one seemed to grasp the enormity of what was coming. By two in the morning, the winds had intensified, howling like a wild animal outside her home. The rain came in torrents, hammering the roof with a deafening roar, and we moved the kids into our bedroom thinking it was probably safer there and huddled together.

The power went out soon after, plunging us into complete darkness, and the only light came from flashes of lightning that illuminated with the chaos that was going on outside. There was a ton of flying debris, bending trees and collapsing structures, and suddenly there was a tremendous crash as our living room window shattered spraying glass across the floor. The wind tore through the house ripping curtains from their rods and flinging furniture across the room and Peter shouted over the noise get to the bathroom. We grabbed the children and ran and the bathroom was small but it felt like a fortress compared to the rest of the house. Peter pushed the mattress against the door as a makeshift barricade while I held the

children close, whispering reassurances that I myself didn't believe. The wall shook violently and it felt as if the entire house might be torn apart at any moment, but then suddenly an uneasy calm settled over us and the wind abruptly stopped. We hesitated, unsure of what to do, and Peter then peeked out and said, We're in the eye. Come on. We don't have much time. Then despite my protests, he ran outside to check on the neighbors.

And the devastation was staggering. Entire houses had been flattened and the streets were unrecognizable, buried under piles of debris. Cars had been overturned or crushed under falling trees, and the air was thick with a smell of salt water, mud, and destruction. Some neighbors were wandering, dazed, their faces streaked with blood and disbelief. Others were calling out for loved ones, their voices tinged with shock or panic, and Peter returned quickly, urging us to stay put.

The calm lasted barely twenty minutes before the winds returned, this time from the opposite direction. It was even fiercer than before, as if the cyclone was determined to finish us all off. Rain poured in, soaking us to the bone before our bathroom door buckled under the pressure, and the roof began to peel away, one sheet of metal at a time. I remember clinging to Sarah and Jacob, shielding them as best I could, and the sound was almost indescribable. It was like a cacophony of screeching metal, crashing timber, all wrapped up in this relentless

howl of the wind. There came a point where my ears popped from the pressure and I could feel the vibrations of the storm in my chest. Time lost all meaning, and it felt like an eternity before the winds finally began to subside. When dawn broke, we emerged from the bathroom, and what greeted us was a scene of utter devastation. Our home, like so many others, was barely standing. The roof was gone and most of the walls had collapsed.

The kitchen was unrecognizable, buried under a mountain of debris. We stepped outside and were met with the full extent of the destruction, and Darwin looked like a war zone. Not a single structure seemed untouched. Trees were uprooted, power lines dangled precariously, and the streets were littered with fragments of lives. Things like clothing, toys, even the odd family photograph, and the air was thick with the cries of the injured and the calls of those searching for loved ones.

My heart sank as I saw neighbors helping each other sift through rubble, hoping to find survivors. Miraculously, our family was unharmed, but many others were not so lucky. More than 70 people lost their lives that night, and many others were injured or made homeless by what came to be known as Cyclone Tracy. In the days that followed, the scale of the disaster became clear. Cyclone Tracy had obliterated over 70% of Darwin's buildings, leaving tens of thousands homeless.

The government declared a state of emergency and began evacuating residents. We were among those airlifted out, taking only what we could carry. Saying goodbye to the place that we called home was heartbreaking, but we had no choice. Rebuilding Darwin was a monumental task, and some people said it'd take years, but the spirit of our community never wavered. People came together, offered support and kindness in the face of unimaginable loss, and we shared food, water, and stories, finding comfort in each other. And that night is something I'll never forget.

Even now, the sound of the wind gets my heart racing and the smell of rain takes me right back to those awful hours. But I also think about how our community pulled together, finding strength when we needed it most. Cyclone Tracy was devastating, but it brought out the best in people. Kindness, bravery, and the determination to rebuild. It had been nearly 50 years since then. Darwin has grown into a strong, thriving city built to stand up against whatever comes next,

but for those of us who were there, Tracy isn't just history, it's part of our story. And I share this not to dwell on the pain, but to remember those we lost and honor the strength of those who survived. Nature is powerful, but so is the human spirit. I first heard about Craigslist and the aftermath of the attacks in 2001, because a lot of information and photos were being posted there. The pictures and video people were uploading were just insane, and the actual first-hand eyewitness accounts being posted on Craigslist's NYC was even crazier. Like some people said how a man in a business suit ran past them,

his tie was on fire but he didn't seem to notice, and another described the people emerging from the dust as like statues coming to life. That's what got me into the habit of logging on every day. And then after I ran out of new pictures to stare at or new accounts of the attack to read, I'd inevitably end up switching back to the Craigslist page of my hometown to browse the local listings. I was a regular visitor to the free section or the for sale listings, because you could find some real gems on that thing. Then the fix it and frugal posts and the discussion section could be pretty useful too, but the

section that I found myself visiting daily without fail were the temporary jobs listings. There used to be some real easy ways of making money. You could get paid for taking part in studies or surveys about everything from binge eating to depression, and then one time some big beauty company paid me to rub moisturizer all over my face and then just give my thoughts about it. There used to be a bunch of small home repair jobs too, which were a great way to make a

quick 30 bucks here and there. Some folks just needed to borrow a ladder, and would pay 10 bucks in gas money for me to drive over there so they could just change the damn battery on their smoke alarm and stop it from beeping every 30 seconds. But then you'd get your weirder temp job posts. I remember seeing one that said, earn $100 by sending a text. The post said something like, totally legit, email below. But I was convinced it was a scam.

I just couldn't figure out how. So out of pure curiosity, I hit up the email address provided with a short but very polite inquiry. I received an email back pretty quickly, basically explaining that it was totally legit, and I'd bewired money upon the text message's delivery. Still unconvinced, I just sort of humored the guy and asked what he wanted me to say. He then sent me the cell number that he wanted me to text along with the exact wording that I should use, and it was just three words. I.

See. You. And I chose not to reply. I just deleted the email thread, flagged the post, and went back to browsing. But I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't just a little freaked out. I later noticed that the post was gone, but back then, Craigslist only had a skeleton crew for a moderating team, so I'm honestly not sure if it was taken down because it got flagged so many times, or because the job actually got completed.

I guess it could have been nothing but a prank. But even so, that really was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to weird Craigslist advertisements. And over the next few years, I saw ads that were a whole lot stranger and in some cases a whole lot darker too. Once Craigslist started to hit its peak traffic, so sometime between 2004 and 2009, you'd see a lot more weird posts. But a lot of them were either jokes or the first stage of some elaborate prank. I used to browse some of the wilder ones just for the funnies, but I felt like I got pretty good at telling the difference between a few high school kids having fun down at the computer

lab and someone who needed serious psychiatric help. At least until I saw an ad that read, earn money by helping with medical treatment. Nothing about the title raised any flags from me at first because it was expected that you'd come across something unusual like that every so often. But again, out of pure curiosity, I clicked the post, read through the listing, and then started laughing my ass off at what OP had written. I can't remember exactly what it said and I seriously wish that I'd taken a screenshot or some picture so I could tell you, but it was more or less something like this.

The medical treatment OP was referring to was the amputation of his right leg. He wanted someone to drop by his apartment and basically spot him so he could remove his right leg below the knee without leaking all over the floor and taking a forever nap. He'd written that experience wasn't necessary because he'd coach you on how to tie the tourniquet and how to cauterize a wound, but that anyone who helped would be paid a cool $1,000. I realized the content is pretty dark, but the way OP had written the ad was nothing short of hilarious. Again, I wish I'd made a record of it before the post was finally taken down because it

was written in such a self-aware and self-deprecating style that at first, I thought it had to be a well-written satire. When I saw the attached email address read, cash to cut off my leg at aol.com, I remember erupting into laughter and being entirely convinced that I was reading some kind of inside joke between medical students. I actually thought it was the funniest post that I'd ever really seen and it tickled me so much that I figured that I'd send an email saying how much I actually appreciated it. It was almost like the poster was aware of how weird Craigslist ads could be and basically mocking the whole system. Well it turns out the guy had an awesome sense of humor but his

ad was not a joke. And so I send off this email saying something of the sorts of, you guys gave me a chuckle, keep up the great work. Then a few hours later, a reply flashed up in my inbox. Cash to cut off my leg, and for ease I'll just call him Cash from here on out, told me that while he was excited about me appreciating his bleak sense of humor, he expected serious inquiries only. He supposedly made that clear toward the end of his post, but all the unserious posts included those words and almost a calling card to indicate that they were just that, very unserious trolling.

And you'd see stuff like, seeking 10 gallons of breast milk, serious inquiries only, or seeking someone to bite my hemorrhoids, serious inquiries only, to the point where almost all the truly serious posts made a point of not including that phrase in order to appear authentic. But then, even with cash insisting that it was the real deal, I still had trouble believing someone was willing to pay me to help cut off their leg. I remember sending back a short and very honest message basically saying, I appreciate the

dedication to the joke, but I'm still not fooled. And Cash's reply came back within minutes again. And he assured me that his post was not a joke, claimed the amputation of his leg was something he'd been planning for years, and then added that he'd actually practiced such procedure on one of his fingers. He then said that he didn't care if I doubted his authenticity, that he'd find someone to help eventually, and if that person wasn't me, then I should just kindly refrain from further emails.

I don't know what I was expecting to read and reply, but it certainly wasn't something so concise and believable. I say believable because he didn't attempt to creep or gross me out, well not deliberately anyway. It was actually the opposite. His message was just polite and tongue in cheek-in-cheek at first and what's more he Made a crystal clear that he had nothing to prove to anyone Normally, I just ended an email chain once I figured out that the poster was either crazy or just trying to prank someone

But in this case this guy had me fascinated. I didn't write a reply straight away I'd actually resign myself to doing what I'd mentioned. Just disregard it, delete it, and then move on. But in Cash's case, I couldn't bring myself to just nuke the threat and be done with it. I think I knew in the back of my mind that I'd end up writing to him again. I just didn't count on the urge taking hold of me so soon. And I remember heading back to my computer and typing out some very long email that basically amounted to this. If his post was nothing more than an attempt at humor, then that was fine.

But if he was truly genuine in his request, then I found him and his so-called medical treatment so incredibly fascinating. And then with that in mind, I asked if he was okay with me asking him some questions. Cash's reply didn't come so fast that time, but when it did, I was actually kind of excited to hear back from him. He said that very few people ever showed any genuine interest in him, and since I seemed so sincere, I was welcome to ask him anything I liked. I was still in very much two minds about this Cash guy being genuine.

I figured he could be real, but it was far more likely that he was lying for some reason, and from my own peace of mind I wanted to sort of catch him so I could put the whole thing to rest. I asked Cash a lot of questions over the week or so that followed, about all sorts of different stuff, but the gist of his answers was this. Back when he was in elementary school, a popular teenage boy in Cassius hometown was involved in a serious automobile accident. Lots of people heard about the kid getting all mangled up before they rushed him to a hospital, and for a while there, it was looking like his race was run, as they say. Somehow the kid pulls through, but when he showed up again, it was on crutches, because

he lost one of his legs just above the knee. Cash said that all the way back then he remembered feeling different to everyone else. They either pitied the kid who lost his leg or were relieved that he pulled through all the surgeries that he had to go through. Whereas young Cash there, he didn't feel any pity or relief. He actually felt envy. He felt jealous that the one kid got all kinds of sympathy and privileges, and I mean that was only right to support the new amputee as he settled into his new life.

But I guess from Cash's perspective, it just kinda twigs something in his brain and made him associate the loss of limb with some kind of, I dunno, bugged positive feedback loop. Because ever since then, Cash had an obsession with people losing limbs and particularly their legs. It made for an incredibly intricate backstory, and a disturbingly convincing one too, but I still wasn't convinced until Cash sent me a photographic evidence of what he called his auto-amputation. Now, if you can cast your mind back, Cash mentioned something about performing an amputation on one of his fingers as a sort of dry run for his leg. Just like the car crash victim that he'd seen it as a kid, he

wanted his right leg amputated just above the knee, but he also knew how risky it'd be to try and pull off that kind of procedure at home, even with a spotter. And with that in mind, he wasn't about to jump onto the operating table with anyone, which was pretty understandable. But then, unable to resist myself, while the topic of his finger amputation had been raised, I asked if I could see this photographic evidence. In his next reply, when Cash said, maybe some other time, my belief and disbelief ratio became seriously skewed and from then on I was mostly convinced Cash was lying

to me. Then suddenly, right as I was on the verge of losing interest in someone I increasingly considered kind of a fraud, Cash sent me an email with two attachments, one photo and one video. Now the photo was nothing but a hand with a series of letters written on it. I had to squint and zoom in to see what the letter said because the picture was of very poor quality, but after a few seconds of pondering it the words became very clear. It said, cash to cut off my leg and underneath the same date the email had been sent was

written there too. Kind of like a proof of life hostage photo. But then the thing which almost had me audibly gasping was when I noticed how the pinky finger was missing. And right then, two thoughts wrestled in my head. The first was that Cash could have lost his pinky in a hundred different ways. Hell, he could have been some bored gator rancher down in Florida, spinning up some Yankee up north one hell of a yarn, as they say.

But then, the other thought said something like, he knew you might think that, so he sent you a video of him doing it as proof. And I found myself almost hoping that that wouldn't be the case, that that video would end up being sort of a live photograph to show the picture hadn't been photoshopped, but when I opened the file, I found it was exactly what I'd prayed it wasn't. A masked man was holding a pair of bolt cutters, and without going into too much gory detail, he used them to snip through his little finger

just above the knuckle. I could barely watch, but I saw it, and the wound seemed like it was an exact match for the scar Cash displayed in the photo that he sent me. There could be no more doubt, this Cash guy was the real deal. But instead of satisfying my curiosity, I found myself insatiable and longed to know more about other amputation procedures Cash claimed to have been involved in. Cash was always careful to make himself as anonymous as possible, and he knew that the more he talked about things that he'd done and places he'd been, the more likely it was that I'd figure out his identity. But with that in mind, he told me about one or two things he'd taken part of, where it was him that had been the spotter and sometimes people just wanted him there for moral

encouragement and not even to physically participate. Such as the guy who snipped his junk off. Cash said that he did all the clamping and cutting himself, he just needed someone who understood his thinking there to talk him through it. But then another time, Cash helped a guy amputate his own leg, or rather, make it so that the hospital had no choice to amputate it for him. He and this dude he met on Craigslist loaded up a plastic trash bin with ice and water, and then the guy he met up with basically Submerged his leg in ice for almost 20 hours Now cash said it was his job to keep the guy's core warm so that he didn't go into hypothermia

And he also had to make sure the guy had snacks fluids and everything he needed to make sure that he didn't have to unsubmerge his leg. Now being kept at freezing temperatures that long completely killed all the tissue while keeping the man himself pretty safe. Cash then drove him to the hospital and a couple of hours later, voila, a brand new, very happy amputee. What's more, Cash didn't take a penny from the guy. He helped out of the kindness of his heart. And honestly, I couldn't believe what I was reading. Or rather, I could, but I couldn't imagine getting that kind of satisfaction or fulfillment from having a limb removed. I asked Cash why people wanted this kind of thing, and he told me it was for a variety of reasons.

wanted this kind of thing, and he told me it was for a variety of reasons. Some people wanted to look on the outside like they felt on the inside, and after their limb of choice was removed, they disappeared from the amputation scene entirely. Others stuck around to help coach others through the process, but then according to the cache, there was the third kind. The kind that had one limb removed, and then another, and then another, until it was clear that they were on a very dangerous path. He knew one guy whose ambition was to be like a limbless pillow person, not out of any kind of overtly inward loathing either, but because he liked the idea of people having to tend

to his every need. Another guy's dream was to have his severed head animated so he could watch someone butcher his body before finally being unplugged. Technologically speaking, that fantasy is obviously a few thousand years in the making, but it gave me a real insight into the kinds of people who drifted in and out of the auto-amputation scene. And after a while, I guess I kind of and out of the auto-amputation scene. And after a while I guess I kind of ran out of questions to ask while Cash's replies

became less and less frequent. We'd keep in touch here and there, kind of like pen pals in a weird way, until one day Cash emailed me to say that he'd found someone willing to help remove his leg. It sounds kind of twisted to think about it now, but I was actually kind of happy for him. I had already had my suggestion of therapy turned down before Cash gave me the stark warning of, do not try and save me, or I'll stop replying to your emails. I figured he was beyond saving at this point, and all he wanted in the world was to get

that leg of his removed. And so, I don't know, hearing that he was finally about to organize its removal, and with the help of a very willing participant, I was actually pretty excited for him I guess. After all, it was do it quote unquote properly, or risk messing it up and losing his life, and aside from his weird thing with auto-amputation, Cash didn't seem like a bad guy at all. He didn't give me too much detail, but he seemed close with his family, and he never said where, but I know he volunteered with some kind of charitable foundation.

He also assured me that he had a sit-down with some job someplace so his amputation wouldn't affect his ability to take care of himself, and he never partook in an amputation if he believed it would affect a person's lifestyle too negatively. And it was surreal for me that someone with such a wild and sadistic streak could seem like such a well-rounded person in their regular life. But I guess God makes him in all different shapes and sizes and mindsets too. And the last time I ever spoke to Cash, he sent me an email that simply read, Today's the day. I'll let you know how it goes.

But he failed to send any kind of follow up. I remember waiting anxiously, refreshing my inbox over and over, hoping for some kind of update, any sign that he was alright. And days turned into weeks, and then the silence became unbearable, and I remember sending him a flurry of follow-up emails in that time, each more desperate than the last. I begged him, over and over, to just let me know that he was okay, but the replies never came.

I told myself that he had a sudden change of heart, that he realized what he was doing was insane, canceled his plans and walked away from the AA scene for good. And I clung to that hope like a lifeline, imagining him finding clarity and getting help and maybe even laughing off the whole ordeal in hindsight. But late at night, when the world was very still and quiet, darker thoughts would creep in. And deep down in that place I didn't want to acknowledge, I felt like I already knew the truth.

He went through with it. And something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. The not knowing was the worst part. Did he fade away alone in some dingy motel? Did the tools that he relied on fail him at the worst possible moment? Or was it worse than that? Did he achieve what he wanted, only to realize too late the magnitude of his mistake? And it gnawed at me endlessly for a very from anyone, and I hope to reply one day to

find its way into my inbox, but it never has. And I think part of me knows for certain that I'll never hear from cash from Craigslist ever again. It was Christmas Day, a day meant for celebration, for prayer, for gathering with family. In our small village of Furlaje, we had planned to attend church, eat together, and celebrate the birth of Jesus. Instead, it became the day our lives were torn apart. A day that, when I think of it now, I am reminded of the smell of burning, as if the air itself wanted to suffocate our very spirit.

I had been up before sunrise, helping my mother prepare cassava and beans for the Christmas feast. My younger brother, Kizho, who had just turned eight, was outside kicking his new football back and forth with our father. He was so happy with his new ball, not just because it was a gift, but because he and his friends would be able to play together. Our father joked that one day he would become a great footballer and travel to Europe and make lots of money, and we laughed and the future seemed so bright.

We had no idea of the terror that marched towards us. The first warning came as a distant rumble, sort of like thunder, but the skies were blue and clear, And we thought that it might be herds of cattle or the wind in the trees. And it wasn't until we heard the unmistakable crack of gunfire that we realized something was terribly wrong. The LRA had come. They descended on our village like rabid animals, shooting their weapons as they ran. There were at least twenty to thirty of them, young men with violence in their eyes and war paint on their faces.

Some carried machine guns and machetes and other carried clubs studded with nails and chunks of iron and they barely looked like human beings anymore. As they charged, they began shouting in a language that I didn't understand, but somehow I knew what they were saying. They were screaming of killing, violating, torturing, and destroying us. We tried to run, but where could we go? The village was surrounded by very thick forest and the attackers were able to move much faster. I grabbed Keese's hand, dragging him toward the church, thinking that it might be a place of refuge, but as we reached the steps we saw bodies sprawled across the ground. Men, women and children, all lay dead.

The LRA had shown them no mercy. I froze, my grip tightening on Keese's hand, and he had no idea what was happening and kept asking me, sister, what's going on? I knew, but I didn't have the words or the heart to tell him. And when the LRA soldiers cornered an uncle from our village, he tried to reason with them and then begged for mercy. He stepped forward, hands raised as he pled for his life, but one of the rebels shot him in the chest

without hesitation. And the rebels laughed as he died, a chilling sound that I'll never forget. After that the LRA rounded up those of us who remained and then forced us to kneel in the dirt. One of the soldiers, who looked to be their leader, shouted something and pointed at the group and then began to separate us, men from women, adults from children, and my father was among the men. He looked at me one last time, his eyes full of fear and love before they marched him away with the others, and I never saw them again.

The women and children were then taken to church. The rebels had turned it into a sort of slaughterhouse, and they set fire to that building, forcing us to watch as flames consumed our sanctuary, and anyone who tried to escape was hacked down with machetes or shot. I remember clutching Kiza tightly, trying to shield him from the horrors around us, but how could I protect him? The rebels, they were like devils, and they took pleasure in our suffering, laughing as they mutilated us and killing who they pleased. Kisa was crying, and he trembled as I held him.

One of the rebels noticed us and approached, and he was holding a machete. He grabbed Kisa by the arm and pulled him away from me. I screamed, begged, and pleaded, but the man hit me very hard in the face with his rifle. My vision blurred as I watched him drag Kiza away, and the last thing I remember before I passed out were his screams. Somehow I survived that day, but I don't know why. Perhaps the rebels thought that I was dead after they struck me, or perhaps God spared me for a reason I can't yet understand.

When I woke up, the village was silent except for the crackling of flames and the occasional cry of a wounded survivor. The rebels were gone, leaving behind a trail of death and destruction. I stumbled through the village, calling out for Kisa, for my mother, for anyone, but the only answers were the moans of those dying. The church was just a ruin, its charred skeleton standing as a grim reminder of what had happened. Bodies were strewn everywhere, some mutilated beyond recognition, and I found my mother among them, her lifeless eyes staring to the sky.

I collapsed beside her and began to cry, and Kese and my little brother was nowhere to be found. I searched for days, scouring the forest and surrounding villages, but found no trace of him. I can only hope that he's still alive somewhere, though deep down I fear the worst. The rebels are known for abducting children and either enslaving them or forcing them to become child soldiers, which in many ways is a fate worse than death. It's been years since that Christmas, but the wounds have not healed.

I still see the faces of the dead in my dreams. I hear their screams, smell the smoke, and feel the heat of the flames on my face. I wonder why the world did nothing to stop this, why we were left to suffer alone. The LRA have been terrorizing our region for a long time and for a while. Many people in the West spoke of CONI 2012 and stopping the LRA. But now that is not fashionable anymore and no one seems to care. Do our lives not matter anymore? Did you throw us away for next year's fashion? I send my story not because I want pity. Instead I want the world to know what happened. I want

people to remember the lives that were lost and the families that were torn apart, and want justice and peace for my village, for my family, for Kiza, and for generations to come. I met him through a Craigslist personal's ad. His posts weren't anything fancy, just kinda awkward and sweet, and it said something like, looking for someone to grab a drink with, laugh a little, and see where it goes. And it caught my attention because it felt real. And we started swapping emails, and he came off as funny and kind, maybe a little rough around the edges, but not really in a bad way. Then after a week of chatting, we agreed to meet up in person. The bar was crowded, but we found a quiet corner to sit and talk, and right away, I

noticed that he had this natural charm about him. He was funnier, and way more engaging in person than I expected. He made me laugh, and the way he listened and responded made it feel like he'd be a great listener and maybe at some point in the future a very attentive boyfriend. And as the night went on, he suggested heading to a nearby pool hall so we could continue enjoying one another's company. And I thought, why not? I had driven, so I offered to take him there.

At the pool hall we played a few games and the conversation kept flowing. He made me laugh so much so that I almost forgot that we'd only just met. And then suddenly his phone buzzed on the table and he looked at the screen and his face sort of dropped and then everything changed. I need to tell you something, he said. And I froze, not really sure what was coming. I'm a convicted felon. And I just got out of prison. And my mind started spinning. I didn't even have time to process that before he said, and I have a girlfriend. I live with her, but it's not serious. I'm just staying there until I get back on my

feet. And I was completely blindsided. This man who had been charming and funny all evening had just thrown all of this at me like it was no big deal. Then he added one more thing. She just texted me, she walked into the bar earlier and saw us together, and she knows I'm with you. In that moment, I knew the date was over. I wanted to get out of there, but I'd driven us, and I didn't feel right just leaving

him stranded. I told him that I'd take him back to his car, but the vibe on the drive was completely tense and uncomfortable. And as we drove, the alcohol must have really hit him because he started crying. Just quiet tears at first, but then it turned into full on sobbing. He kept apologizing over and over, saying how much he regretted everything. And I didn't know what to say. And then out of nowhere, he reached for the car door handle.

No panic rose up inside of me and I yelled, we're on the goddamn highway! And he didn't seem to care. He was crying so hard and it was like he wasn't even hearing me. And I hit the child locks as fast as I could. I yelled at him, trying to stay calm, but inside I was terrified. I didn't know what he was going to do next. The rest of the drive felt like it took forever. And he kept mumbling and crying and I just focused on getting us back to the bar as fast as possible.

When we finally got there I let him out and watched him stumble to his car, and as soon as he was out of sight I just drove away as fast as I could. I thought that was the end of it, but a few days later I got a message from an unknown number. It was his girlfriend, and my stomach dropped. She sent pictures of her face, bruised and swollen with a split lip, and she told me he'd beaten her up after our date. She'd confronted him about seeing me, and that's how he reacted, and I felt sick.

This man who had made me laugh, and so sweet at first was a violent monster. I couldn't believe that I'd spent an entire evening with him laughing and having fun all while being completely unaware of what it was capable of. His soon-to-be ex-girlfriend and I started talking more and more after that, and she told me all about the things he'd done to her and it was horrifying. Then not long after she left him for good and we actually became friends. It's strange how something so terrible can lead to something good, but I guess that's life. And that night changed me. I learned to trust my gut and pay attention to those red flags. If something feels off, it probably is. And looking back, I can't believe how close I came to being another one of his victims,

and it serves as a reminder to be careful and to never underestimate what someone is capable of. It was supposed to be a joyful day, just three days before Christmas with the streets buzzing with last minute shoppers, and I'd finished work early and had decided to head down into town to grab a coffee and watch the skaters on the ice rink in George Square before heading home. The square is the absolute heart of Glasgow during the Christmas period and is alive with families and couples and groups of friends, all bundled up against the cold. And the air smelled of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine from nearby stalls, and as I walked I was reminded of just how special that time of year can be.

I turned on the Queen Street, walking in the direction of George Square as I had kind of soaked up the festive atmosphere, and then it happened. Looking back on it, I think I noticed the bin lorry before most did. It seemed out of place, and something about the way it lumbered along just didn't seem right to me. It was veering ever so slightly, and wasn't following the usual stop-start rhythm of city center traffic. At first I thought maybe the driver was in a rush somewhere, or perhaps a wee bit over-eager

to finish the day's work before his Christmas break. But then, it swerved. The lorry crossed over the curb, mounting the pavement, and that's when it all kicked off. The massive green monstrosity of the truck careened towards the crowds on Queen Street, leaving people with no time at all to react. Some froze in shock, others tried to run, pulling their kids along with them as they

did, but the truck was moving too fast and moved too unpredictably, and they didn't stand a chance. I remember hearing a woman scream, my eyes darting toward her for a split second before they locked back on the lorry. I then gasped in horror as it smashed into street furniture, first a bench, then a row of bins, and it just kept going, completely unstoppable. Glass shattered as it clipped a shop window and the sound of metal screeching against metal was near deafening.

Panic spread like wildfire, and people shouted warnings, trying in vain to get innocent bystanders out of the way in time. At one point I saw a young lad grab an elderly woman off the pavement just in time and the lorry must have missed them by inches. Others weren't so fortunate. I then watched the lorry plow through a group of people, and I'll never forget the way their bodies bumped into each other, knocking each other over like bowling pins.

Some people were hit so hard it took them right out of their shoes. And people kept screaming for the driver to stop, but it was like he couldn't hear us. The truck barreled through Queen Street, turning into George Square, and my feet carried me forward instinctively following. And I felt powerless and I just needed to know what was happening. When I reached the square the scene was like something from a nightmare. It was supposed to be a place of joy, with fairy lights and the giant Christmas trees standing in the center, and instead it was a scene of pure horror.

After hitting a building the lorry had finally stopped, but the damage had already been done. I saw a pram overturn near the Christmas market stalls, and a man knelt beside it as he checked on the child onside, and the baby was crying and I remember feeling this small twinge of relief as I realized that it was still alive. People lay motionless on the ground, bystanders kneeling next to them to give them CPR. Others shouted desperately into their phones for ambulances to come quicker. And I stood there, rooted to the spot, barely able to process what I was seeing. And then a man next to me said, bloody hell, that's like a war zone.

And all I could do was agree. And there was this horrible mix of groans, screams, and sirens wailing in the distance, and I later learned that the driver had suffered some kind of medical emergency, a heart attack, or a blackout or something like that and lost control of the lorry. At the time, though, no one knew, and the not knowing made it all the worse. I found myself looking at a woman who sat on the ground cradling another in her arms, and the woman in her lap wasn't moving. Her face was pale, her lips slightly parted as though she were about to speak, and the

first woman, maybe her friend, sister, or stranger, rocked back and forth whispering it's going to be okay. But I could tell that she feared the worst. Police arrived quickly, cordoning off the area and ushering the uninjured away. And they looked as shaken as we were, and so did the paramedics as they flooded the square and started loading people onto stretchers. It felt wrong to leave, but I wasn't helping by staying, so I moved to the edge of the square and stood beneath the massive Christmas tree until I was finally able to just... leave.

And in the days that followed, details trickled out slowly on the news. Six people dead, and a lot were left with life-changing injuries. Glasgow was stunned, and tributes poured in for those that had lost their lives. Flowers and messages filling George Square and a vigil gathered to pay their respects. The crowd was made up of survivors, bystanders and well-wishers all sharing their stories, all trying to make sense of what was impossible to make sense of. And for weeks afterwards I couldn't stop replaying the scene in my head.

I kept thinking about the young couple that I'd seen earlier, laughing together as they walked hand in hand down Queen Street. Were they okay? Had they made it out unscathed? And what about the woman with the pram? And I still find myself asking those questions sometimes. Even now, years later, I still make an effort to avoid George Square around Christmas time if possible. The city came together in the aftermath, as Glasgow always does, with a spirit of resilience and community. But the scars remain, and for those of us who were there, the 22nd of December will never be just another day. I remember being 8 years old and my dad bringing home our first home computer. I have very vivid memories of how excited he and my mom were and how dad let me use MS Paint to get me accustomed to using the mouse.

It seemed like a big deal to them, but it was like a positive thing, you know, something they were excited about. But then when we finally got hooked up to the internet, that was a big deal in a whole different kind of way. My dad treated the computer like it was a gift from the gods and the key to the 21st century, which I guess in many ways it was, kind of. But he treated the internet like it was a loaded gun. I later learned that an uncle had warned my mom about how the internet was full of very

dark stuff that had warped my young mind. And while I'd say that that statement had a whiff of hyperbole about it, I can't say it's completely false either. Maybe six or seven years later, when I was finally allowed to surf the internet unsupervised, I discovered a little website you may know as Craigslist. I'm sure like 90% of people know what Craigslist is, and if you don't, you better just google it or something, but I wasn't revisiting the place for the sales or the personals. I was returning for all the weird info dumps and discussions

taking place in the psych and religion sections of the discussion boards. And that's when I discovered the single most disturbing thing I had ever read online. The story of a little girl named Anna, and how even though I thought my uncle was an old prude making mountains out of molehills, it was actually kind of right about the whole internet being full of weird and very disturbing stuff. So back in 2007, a young Czech man set up one of those video baby monitors in order to check up on his newborn son. But then one night, he switches it on and instead of seeing his kid asleep in his crib, he sees a boy of around 6 or 7 bound

and gagged in the corner of the dirty cellar. Naturally, the guy rushes to call the cops who deduce that he somehow received the signal of a similarly video-based baby monitor located in a nearby home. The cops then go door to door, trying to figure out where the signal was coming from, and that's when they meet the Morovo sisters. The older of the two sisters was the single mother of two young boys and had recently adopted a 13-year-old girl named Anna. It was one of those two boys the young father had witnessed tied up in the basement. It was a form of punishment, but

not one devised by the boy's mother or aunt. It was little Anna's idea, the 13-year-old girl adopted by the older Morova sister. But Anna had not just been manipulating the sisters into brutally punishing the boy. She had been cutting off thin slices of his flesh and then feeding them to the unwitting sisters in their daily meals. And at first, the police believed Anna was just another victim of the sisters' abuse. Yet oddly, the girls didn't show any of the same signs of abuse that the boys had, be it burns, bruises, or scars. The two boys confirmed it too.

Only they were ever subjected to abuse and Anna remained untouched. Somehow Anna had convinced the two boys that they deserved to be punished, which was why they never thought to fight back or otherwise defend themselves. The same was true for the two sisters. Somehow Anna had convinced them that what they were doing was the right thing to do, and neither of them had a history of being abusive until little Anna had showed up on their doorstep. Little Anna was adopted all right, but the Morovo sisters hadn't visited an orphanage or contacted some kind of adoption agency. Little Anna had simply turned up on their doorstep one day and had never left.

The cops do some digging on little Anna, trying to find out where she came from, then after months upon months of searching, this is what they discovered. 13-year-old Anna was not 13 years old. She wasn't even named Anna. She was actually in her early 30s. Her name was Barbara, and the only reason she could pass as a young girl was because she had some rare developmental disorder. The cops moved to arrest the woman only to find that she'd fled the country, but thanks

to them being able to circulate recent photos of her, she was quickly tracked down and then brought back to the Czech Republic to face justice. It turns out she was in Poland, posing as a fourteen-year-old boy, and she'd already talked her way into the home of a young family who had, you guessed it, two young children. On the Craigslist discussion board there were all kinds of rumors that Anna's birth parents were connected to some weird cult called the Grail Movement. But even as a teenager I found the connection to be odd at best. The only thread that held them together was the idea that the movement's goal was to create a kind

of MetaChrist, essentially a copy of Jesus with all the same preternatural powers. Supposedly, Anna was this MetaChrist, but then without the proper guidance, she turned rotten and used her powers for evil. The Grail movement was a real thing, and a serious enough movement that the National Socialists went after them after they annexed Austria. But I think people just wanted to tag the two subjects together to make the whole thing into some vast creepy conspiracy, when to me the whole thing is just scary enough on its own.

These days I think back on it, on what my uncle said about the internet being full of weird creepy stuff, and I think he's partially right. But it's not the internet that's packed with all of those strange, frightening things. It's the world outside of our windows. Real life. The world and the people in it. Those are the really scary things. All websites like Craigslist do is kinda act like a window,

which allows all of us to see it truly. It was Christmas Eve in Calumet, Michigan and though times were hard, there was a buzz of excitement in the air. For the miners and their families, this holiday gathering at the Italian Hall was a chance to escape the struggles of daily life, if only for a few hours. The strike had been dragging on for months, and tensions with the mining companies were high. Most of the men hadn't worked in weeks, and money was tight, but the women's auxiliary of the Western Federation of Miners had worked tirelessly to organize the party.

They wanted to make sure the children had a reason to smile, even in the midst of such hardship. I arrived early with my sister Anna and her two little ones, Sophie and Peter. Sophie who was just five clung to her mother's hand and her eyes were wide lighting up at the sight of the Christmas tree in the hall. And it was a very grand tree, tall and sparkling with ornaments, standing in the corner of the large upstairs room where the party was held. The children's laughter filled that space, mingling with the hum of conversation and

the melodies of carols played on a small upright piano. The hall was packed, the wooden floor creaking under the weight of so many feet, and families crowded in, bundled in heavy coats and scarves and their cheeks pink from the cold. Volunteers handed out candy and small gifts, little dolls, tin soldiers, and sweets wrapped in paper. For many of these children, it was the only Christmas gift they would receive that year, and I remember watching Sophie and Peter join the other children near the tree and their faces, alight with joy as they danced and played. I stood near the back with Anna, sipping hot coffee from a tin cup and my hands were very grateful for

the warmth. The smell of pine mingled with the scent of damp wool coats and the faint aroma of food from the kitchen downstairs. And then it happened. It started with a voice, very sharp and urgent, cutting through the music and chatter. Fire, fire. And for a moment everything froze. The music stopped and silence fell over the crowd, and then like a match struck in a dry forest, panic ignited. People screamed and the rooms seemed to shift all at once as the crowd surged toward the exit. I could see the stairs from where I stood, a single narrow flight leading down to the

street, and it was the only way out. Anna grabbed my arm, her eyes wide with fear, and we pushed our way forward, struggling against the tide of bodies. People shouted and shoved, their faces wild with terror, and I tried to stay calm, to tell myself it couldn't be true, that there was no smell of smoke, no heat, no sign of fire, but the fear in the room was real, and it was spreading like wildfire. Sophie and Peter were near the tree when the panic started, but by the time we reached them, they were crying, clutching each other tightly.

Anna scooped up Sophie, and I grabbed Peter's hand, pulling him close as we turned toward the exit. The stairs were at a bottleneck, a mass of people crammed into the narrow space, all trying to escape at once. From where I stood, I could see the load of bodies piling up near the doorway. People fell, tripped and were trampled underfoot. The screams were deafening, a terrible chorus of desperation and fear. I held onto Peter's hand with all my strength, terrified of losing him in the crowd.

Anna was just ahead of me, her face pale as she clutched Sophie to her chest. We inched forward, step by agonizing step, but the press of bodies was relentless. The screams were deafening, a terrible chorus of desperation and fear. I held onto Peter's hand with all my strength, terrified of losing him in the crowd. Anna was just ahead of me, her face pale as she clutched Sophie to her chest. We inched forward, stepped by agonizing step, but the press of bodies was relentless. The air grew thick, not with smoke, but with panic and the suffocating heat of so many people packed together.

Somewhere in the chaos I heard someone shout, "'There's no fire! It's a false alarm!" But it was too late. The fear had taken hold and there was no stopping this tide. I don't know how long it took for us to reach the bottom of the stairs. It felt like hours, though it could only have been minutes. And by the time we stumbled out into the cold night air, my legs were trembling and Peter was crying so hard that he could barely breathe.

Anna clutched Sophie tightly, her face streaked with tears, and the street outside was chaos. People milled about, shouting names and looking for loved ones. Some stood in shock, staring at the hall's doorway where bodies were still wedged together, a terrible human barricade that had blocked the exit. I could hear the anguished cries of those still trapped inside. It wasn't until later that we learned the truth. There had been no fire, no danger, only a cruel prank. Someone, perhaps an agent of the mining companies, had shouted fire to create panic, knowing

full well the chaos that it would cause. And the narrow stairway had become this death trap, and by the time it was over, seventy-three people were dead, most of them children. In the days that followed, the grief was unbearable. Funerals were held one after another, a grim procession of caskets too small to comprehend, the community was shattered, and our collective heart broken by the senselessness of it all. I think about that night often, about the faces of the children who didn't make it out, their laughter silenced forever.

I think about the cruel hand that caused it and the lives that it destroyed, and I think about Sophie and Peter, how close we came to losing them and how fragile life can be. The Italian Hall is gone now, torn down years later but the memory remains. A simple archway stands in its place, a stark reminder of that terrible night. Every Christmas Eve I light a candle for those we lost, and I hold my family close, grateful for every moment we have together. I stumbled across the link on a Craigslist Psych Discussion forum. I wasn't looking for anything specific, just killing time scrolling through threads on lucid dreaming and conspiracies

about subliminal messaging, and then I saw the post, Live feed, smiling man, watch if you dare. It had a single link, no description, and a sense of weirdness that kind of pulled me in, and against my better judgement I clicked on it. The stream loaded quickly, revealing a man sitting in a plain wooden chair in the middle of an empty room, and the lighting was flat and harsh, giving the whole scene a very clinical vibe. He was staring directly at the camera, unblinking, with the kind of smile you'd expect from someone trying too hard in a family photo. It wasn't quite

unsettling at first, it was just kind of strange. And I waited for him to do something. A wave, a twitch, a shift in a seat, anything. But he didn't. He just sat there, his wide eyes locked on the lens, his lips frozen in that eerie grin. And I checked the time stamp. It was live. I remember thinking, well this is weird, while glancing at the chat window. It was empty, no viewers except for me, and curiosity kept from watching. Now five minutes turned into ten, and then twenty. He didn't move once. No blinking, no fidgeting, nothing. It was like he was frozen in time except for the faint rise and fall

of his chest. The longer I stared the more unnatural it felt, as if he were daring me to keep looking. And then suddenly I heard a noise. At first I thought it was my imagination, but it grew louder. A faint creak like footsteps on old wood. But the man didn't react. The sound got louder, footsteps echoing faintly in this stream, coming from somewhere out of view. A shadow flickered across the far wall of the room and my stomach tightened. Someone was there. Someone else.

I leaned closer to the screen and my pulse was quickening. A figure appeared, blurry at first, and then cleared as they moved cautiously into the frame. It was a man, dressed in dark clothes, wearing a ski mask, and he was holding a sledgehammer. The intruder didn't seem to notice the live camera at first. He glanced around the room, gripping the hammer tightly, and then froze when his eyes landed on the smiling man. But then man, he didn't move an inch. His grin didn't falter and his gaze didn't shift.

The intruder hesitated, his posture stiffening. He took a step closer, waved a hand in front of the smiling man's face. Nothing. And then he whispered something, low enough that I couldn't make it out. The smiling man stayed silent, and he didn't even blink. The intruder backed away slowly, muttering to himself and then turned and bolted out of the frame. I heard the sound of a door slamming shut somewhere off screen, and for a moment the

room was quiet again, except for the faint hum of the camera. The man didn't so much as flinch. I closed the tab, but the image of his frozen smiling face stayed with me long after. I never went back to that stream, but sometimes I wonder how many people have found it since, and who's really watching who? Christmas morning in Nashville was supposed to be quiet. I had been looking forward to a slow start to the day, sipping coffee while the rest of the city still slept off the festivities of Christmas Eve. Living downtown had its perks.

Broadway, with its honky-tonks and neon lights, was just a few blocks away, but mornings were usually peaceful. And that was until the chaos began. I woke up at around 5.30am, startled by a strange noise. It wasn't the usual hum of the city. It was a series of rapid pops, like gunfire, echoing down the street. At first I thought maybe someone had a little too much to drink the night before and was setting off firecrackers, but something about the sound didn't sit right. It was sharper,

louder, and more deliberate, and curiosity got the better of me. I threw on a coat over my pajamas and stepped out onto the balcony of my second story apartment, which overlooks Second Avenue North. The street was quiet, unusually so in the crisp morning air, carried a sort of eerie stillness. And then I saw it. A large white recreational vehicle parked in the middle of the street, right outside the AT&T building.

The RV looked out of place and it was an older model, not the type of vehicle you'd expect to see downtown, especially on Christmas morning. But what struck me even more was the sound coming from it. A recorded voice echoed through the street, calm and robotic, repeating the same message over and over. This area must be evacuated now. This area must be evacuated now. This area must be evacuated now." And I froze, my breath visible in the cold air, and it felt surreal, like something out of a movie.

A warning? On Christmas morning? A few other neighbors had come out onto their balconies or peered through their windows and their faces, as confused as mine. One man down the street stepped outside and shouted toward the RV, but the voice continued its loop, unbothered. Minutes later, the messages changed. The same monotone voice announced, this vehicle will explode in 15 minutes. This vehicle will explode in 15 minutes. And my heart dropped.

This wasn't a prank or some bizarre holiday stunt. This was serious. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, but the line was already flooded, and I could hear sirens in the distance growing louder. Panic started to set in and I ran back inside, shaking my roommate awake, telling her that we had to go, grabbing my keys and throwing on shoes. She was groggy, confused, but the urgency in my voice snapped her into action, and we rushed down the stairs and out the back of the building, joining a small crowd of people

already gathering in the alley behind our complex. The police were arriving now, their blue and red lights cutting through the dim morning light, and the officers shouted for people to move further back, urging everyone to clear the area. I remember looking over my shoulder and seeing one officer running door to door, pounding on them, yelling for residents to evacuate. The recorded warning was still playing. It was unnerving, that calm robotic tone juxtaposed against the rising panic in the streets.

Ten minutes, it said. And we were several blocks away when it happened. And at precisely 6.30 AM, the RV exploded. And the blast was deafening. This thunderous roar that shook the ground beneath us, and I remembered ducking instinctively covering my head as a massive fireball lit up in the sky. The shockwave hit seconds later, rattling windows and setting off car alarms for blocks. When I looked up, a thick plume of black

smoke was rising from where the RV had been. It twisted into the sky like some terrible omen, darkening the already overcast morning. Pieces of debris rained down, and this terrible smell of burning metal and chemicals filled the air. The crowd around me was stunned in the silence. Some people were crying, others clutched their phones, frantically calling loved ones, and the man nearby muttered, Oh my God, over and over again, and his hand shaking. I turned my gaze back toward Second Avenue, and even from where we stood the destruction was visible. The explosion had torn through the street, leaving a jagged crater where the RV once was, and buildings on either side were heavily damaged, their

facades blown apart and windows shattered. Smoke billowed from several storefronts and I could see flames flickering in the rubble. The eerie thing was how empty the street was. If it hadn't been for the warning, the casualties would have been unthinkable. It was Christmas morning, a time when the city was usually quiet but still, it was downtown Nashville. Any other day, the street would have been bustling with people. Emergency services were on the scene within minutes.

Firefighters rushing to contain the flames while police taped off the area. They moved quickly but the devastation was overwhelming. As the morning wore on, more details began to emerge. Officials confirmed it was a deliberate act, a targeted bombing. And they speculated that the AT&T building had been the intended target as the explosion had disrupted telecommunications across the region, and cell service was down, internet was spotty, and people couldn't even make emergency calls. The bomber, it turned out, a man named Anthony Quinn Warner, had stayed inside the RV. The FBI identified him within days through DNA found at the scene.

He had planned everything meticulously, right down to the warning message that had undoubtedly saved lives. But why he did it, and why he chose Christmas and why he targeted Nashville, remained a mystery. For days after, the city felt different. Second Avenue, usually vibrant and full of life, was sectioned off, a haunting reminder of what had happened. News crews descended on the area, their cameras capturing the destruction. Residents left flowers and notes at the barricades and small gestures of

resilience in the face of tragedy. I still think about that morning often, about how close we came to disaster. The destruction was devastating, but it could have been so much worse. The Bombers' warning gave people time to escape, but the psychological scars remain. Every time I hear a loud noise downtown, I flinch, my mind flashing back to that moment, the blast, the smoke, the chaos. And Christmas will never feel the same for me, not after that day.

It's a reminder of how fragile things can be, how quickly everything can change, but it's also a testament to the strength of the city, to the way people come together in the face of tragedy. Way back before I moved out of my parents place, my little cousin spilled Mountain Dew all over my PlayStation and just totally fried the thing. A few hours later I was scrolling my local Craigslist when, bingo, I see a PS3 for sale for a hundred bucks. The post said it was in good condition and the seller claimed that he needed the money

urgently. This seemed too good to be true, but since it was the holidays and everywhere was mostly snowed in, I was bored out of my mind and I was desperate. I texted the number listed and the seller replied quickly suggesting that we meet in the parking lot of a closed down Kmart on the edge of town. He insisted on cash and stressed the need for a quick transaction because he didn't want to be sitting in his car freezing his butt off. I felt uneasy and told myself that I'd be careful.

As long as I saw the PlayStation 3 before handing over the money, I figured I'd be fine. When I pulled into the lot, it was completely empty, aside from the dark car parked at the far end and a man in a hoodie leaned against the driver's door He raised a hand in acknowledgement as I approached and then asked if I had the cash His tone was casual almost bored. So it didn't raise any red flags at all for me. I Nodded and then he motioned toward the backseat of his car saying the PlayStation 3 was there and inviting me to check it out. I stepped out of my car, walked towards his, and then opened the back door.

Inside was a box, but something was off. It wasn't sealed and when I lifted the lid it wasn't a PlayStation 3. Instead, it was an old dusty console that looked like it hadn't worked in years, and before I could react, I sense the guy stepping closer behind me. Then out of nowhere, he pulls a gun from his waistband and tells me to hand over the cash, or I'm dead. The whole time his voice was low and controlled, and he didn't sound remotely nervous, but I felt like I was about to piss my pants as I reached for the envelope in my pocket.

As I turned to hand it over, I caught sight of another person in the driver's seat of his car, crouched low and watching very intently. This wasn't just a bad deal. It was a straight-up set-up. And when that hit me, it hit me like a punch in the face. I had this gut feeling that they weren't about to let me leave and that the guy's next command was going to be for me to get into his car. Instead of just handing over the money and staying put, I tossed the envelope into the

car, then instinctually it just bailed. I threw the cash in the hopes they'd be happy with their hundred bucks, but then, looking back on it, who robs someone for just a hundred bucks? They didn't want the money. They wanted me. And from what they did next, I'm not sure if they cared if I was dead or alive. The first gunshot cracked the air behind me, and then the asphalt kicked up near my feet. I didn't waste a second.

I dove from my car, fumbling with my door handle until a second shot followed, louder and sharper and shattering my rear window. I finally got the door closed, started the engine, and then just stomped on the gas, tires screeching as I peeled out of the parking lot as fast as I could. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold the wheel. When I finally made it home I locked all the doors and sat in the dark for hours, trying to shake off the shock. The shattered glass in my back seat was a grim reminder of just how close I'd come to

something far worse. could have ended much differently. It was Christmas Eve of 1953. The night was warm and clear and there was a sense of quiet excitement in the air as we boarded the Wellington to Auckland express train. I was traveling with my younger sister Margaret to spend Christmas with our parents in Auckland and she was just 16, full of life and enthusiasm and her laughter brightening the crowded carriage. I was 21 and had recently started working in Wellington so this was a rare chance for us to spend time together. And the train had a bunch of families, couples and travelers heading home for the holidays. Our carriage was packed with

chatter and the rustling of parcels, Christmas gifts that were wrapped with care. And I remember the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks, the sort of comforting sound that seemed to harmonize with the festive mood inside the train. And as the hours passed, the passengers settled into a sort of lull. Margaret and I dozed into our seats, followed by the steady motion of the train, and it must have been close to midnight when I was jolted awake by a strange sensation. The train, which had been moving smoothly moments before, began to sway and jolt unnaturally. At first I thought it might just be a sharp curve in the tracks, but the jerking became more violent, and the carriage seemed to lurch sideways.

Suddenly there was this loud roar, like the earth itself had split open. The lights in the carriage flickered and then went out, plunging us all into darkness, and people screamed and I felt Margaret's hand grip mine tightly, her voice trembling with fear. What's happening? She cried out, but I didn't have an answer. In the chaos, the train came to a grinding halt, but not in the way that it should have. Instead of stopping smoothly, there was a gut-wrenching sensation of falling. The carriage tilted sharply and people and luggage were thrown against one another, and

the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood filled the air as the train plunged into the icy waters below. I don't remember the exact moment that we hit that river, but the impact was like being struck by a massive wave. Water surged into the carriage, freezing and relentless, rising quickly and swallowing everything in its path. The screams of the passengers turned into gasps and cries for help as the freezing current engulfed us.

I yelled for Margaret, but my voice was drowned out by the chaos. I could feel her hands slip from mine as the water searched between us, and panic set in as I struggled to keep my head above the water. The overturned carriage was like a coffin, dark and cold, and the air quickly became unbreathable. Somehow I managed to find an opening, a broken window or door, and clawed my way onto the rushing river. The icy water was a shock, numbing my limbs and stealing my breath, but I forced myself

to swim toward what I thought was the riverbank. Around me I could hear the cries of other survivors, their voices mingling with the roar of the river, and when I finally crawled onto the muddy bank, shivering and exhausted, I looked back at that wreckage, and was terrifying. The Falingo River was a raging torrent, a deadly mix of volcanic debris and water rushing down from Mount Ruapehu's crater lake. The bridge has been completely destroyed, its supports washed away by the force of the lahar just moments before the train arrived, and most of the carriages were submerged or

swept downstream, their occupants trapped inside. I searched desperately for Margaret, calling her name until my voice was hoarse. Other survivors were doing the same, some wading into the water to try and pull people from the wreckage, others sobbing in despair. A few locals had arrived, drawn by the noise, and they helped pull the injured to safety, and the night was filled with the sound of crying, shouting, and the relentless roar of the river. And as dawn broke, the scale of the disaster became horrifyingly clear.

Bodies were being pulled from the wreckage, their lifeless forms laid out on the muddy banks. The Christmas gifts that had filled the train were scattered across the river, the bright wrapping paper a tragic contrast to the grim scene. The air was very heavy with the smell of mud and smoke, and the cries of those searching for loved ones echoed in the still morning, and I found Margaret later that day, her body caught in a tangle of debris downstream, and she looked peaceful, as if she were merely sleeping, but the sight of her broke me in

a way that I cannot describe. I sat beside her, holding her cold hand and whispering apologies for not being able to save her. In the days that followed, the tragedy of Tongiwai dominated the news. We learned that the Lahar had struck the bridge just minutes before the train arrived, weakening its structure until it gave way under the weight of the locomotive. There had been no warning, no chance for the train to stop in time, and of the 285 passengers on board, 151 lost their lives.

And in the years since, I've often wondered why I survived when so many others did not. The memories of that night still haunt me, the sound of the river, the cries for help, the sight of my sister's lifeless body. But I also remember the bravery and kindness of those who came to our aid, the locals who risked their lives to save strangers, the resilience of the survivors who refused to give up. The Tongiwai disaster changed my life forever. It took my sister, shattered my family, and left scars that will never fully heal, but it also taught me the value of each moment we

spend in the company of those we love and cherish. 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.