The Lets Read Podcast - 303: THERE'S SOMETHING LURKING IN THE WOODS | Rain Ambience / 15 TERRIFYING True Scary Stories | EP 289

Episode Date: July 22, 2025

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about Christmas & Wilderness Guides 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 Today's episode is sponsored by: Betterhelp

I'm Erika Alini, a reporter at The Globe and Mail. I help you understand how the economy affects your finances. I give you the big picture so you can make better decisions. If that's journalism you value, head to globeandmail.com slash subscribe. So On Sunday, May 19, 1996, 24-year-old Julie Williams and 26-year-old Laura Winans embarked on a hiking trip through the Shenandoah National Park in Virginia. Accompanied by their golden retriever, Tash, the pair planned to spend a few days enjoying the tranquility of the park. Their journey, however, ended tragically as they were brutally murdered at their campsite. Despite initial suspicions pointing towards a man from Columbia,

Maryland, the case against him fell apart, leaving the crime unsolved for years. It wasn't until June of 2024, 28 years after the murders, that authorities announced a significant breakthrough. Re-evaluating the evidence and conducting advanced DNA testing revealed that a convicted rapist Walter Leo Jackson Sr., who was already deceased, was responsible for the brutal slings of Julie and Laura. His identity as the perpetrator behind the crime in this otherwise serene park was confirmed, finally providing a measure of closure for the victims' families.

Laura Lolly-Wynans was born into a privileged family in Michigan but chose a different path in life. Friends described her as a down-to-earth person and very adventurous. And after dropping out of college, Lolly moved to Maine in 1994 where she attended Unity College and worked as a wilderness guide. Known for her love of micro-brews, fish, and the outdoors, Lolly was unapologetically herself, embracing a lifestyle far removed from societal expectations. Julie Williams, who preferred to be called Julie, was passionate about sports and geology.

A high achiever, she won the Minnesota State Double Tennis Championship in high school and traveled to Europe in college to study dinosaur extinction. Graduating summa cum laude, Julie was fluent in Spanish and worked for the bookstore in Burlington, Vermont. She was about to begin a new job in Lake Champlain, Vermont, when tragedy struck. The two women met at Woods Women, Inc., a nonprofit organization focusing on education and adventure travel for women based out of Minneapolis. It was at this charity in 1994 that they forged a bond, sharing a love for hiking and the outdoors. Woods Women, Inc. was often referred to as the grandmother of women's outdoor adventure groups, having served over 8,000 women and

1,200 children from 1977 to 1999. Their tagline, Adventure is the best souvenir, perfectly encapsulated their shared passion. The relationship blossomed despite their different backgrounds, and the couple's love for hiking and spending time in the outdoors was a common thread that brought them together. On May 19th, after a day of walking, Julie and Lolly pitched their tent off one of the Shenandoah National Park's horse trails, settling down for the night. They chose a peaceful spot next to the mountain stream near the Bridal Trail, a section of the horse trail system that runs from Big Meadows to Skyland.

Shenandoah National Park, founded on December 26th of 1935, stretches over 100 miles along the Blue Ridge Mountains. Located between the Shenandoah Valley in the west and the Piedmont region in the east, the park covers 197,411 acres, including mountain streams, more than 500 miles of hiking trails, and nearly 80,000 acres of designated wilderness. Skyline Drive, constructed in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps, offered 105 miles of scenic overlooks, trailheads, picnic areas, and campgrounds. Another popular way to explore the park is by hiking the Appalachian Trail,

which runs across the park for about a hundred miles. The park was busy that Memorial Day weekend, with hikers and sightseers enjoying the natural beauty. It was on May 31st that Thomas Williams, Julie's father, contacted the authorities to report the women missing after they failed to return from their hike. Park rangers set out to search the area, finding the car parked near Skyland Lodge, and the search quickly focused on nearby trails and they found Taj, the golden retriever, wandering without a leash. However, there was no sign of Julie or Lolly.

Bridget Bonet, Deputy Chief Ranger at Shenandoah National Park, recalled the frantic efforts to locate the women. We started doing hasty searches to cover all of those trail corridors in that general area to see if we could locate them. But at some point during those hasty searches we did locate the dog, Bonnet said. It wasn't until June 1st of 1996 that searchers discovered a campsite about half a mile from the vehicle with the two bodies. The women were later identified as Julie and Lolly. National Park Service lead investigator Tim Alley described the grisly scene. Lolly was found inside the tent, gagged, her hands bound with duct tape. The

same tape used to gag Julie, and her throat slit. Unlike Julie, her ankles were also bound. Both women were partially undressed, yet there was no evidence of sexual assault, no semen was found at the scene, and Julie's body, sleeping bag and pad were found around 30 to 40 feet away, down a little embankment. The discovery was complicated by Shenandoah National Park's backcountry regulations, which required backpackers to camp away from designated trails, fire roads, and developed areas. It wasn't a heavily used or heavily traveled trail. They followed the backcountry regulations then requiring them to be out of sight, Bonet

explained. A camera with photos of their hike along with White Oak Canyon Trail was found at the camp. A few days after entering the park, they also climbed Hawksbill, the highest mountain in Shenandoah, just before pitching camp for the last time. The National Park Service waited 36 hours after the discovery to announce the murders, despite the fact that the park was full of visitors who could have been at risk. When the announcement was finally made, Acting Park Superintendent Greg Stiles called it an isolated incident without providing any basis for such a statement. The FBI later categorized the murders as random.

Solving the crime was a daunting task given the high number of visitors to the park in 1996, 1.57 million people. Shenandoah National Park's lawforcement Authority rested exclusively with the federal government. The Parks Law Enforcement staff, in collaboration with the FBI and Virginia State Police's crime scene unit, secured the crime scene and began investigating. Special agents combed through evidence, photos, and interviews, working tirelessly with the Virginia State Police to process the crime scene given the lack of equipment at the time. A disturbing parallel to the murders of Julie and Lolly occurred on July 9th, 1997,

when Yvonne Malbosha, a tourist from Canada, was attacked while cycling on Skyline Drive. Separated from her friend, Malbosha was forced off the road and nearly abducted by Darryl David Rice, a man with no previous criminal record. Rice was apprehended trying to leave the park and his vehicle was found to contain hand and leg restraints indicating predatory behavior. Rice was in his late 20s, single and living in Columbia, Maryland. At the time of his arrest, he was working at Maryland's MCI System House, but he was fired in June 1997 due to hostile behavior. Colleagues reported that Rice was aggressive and had a history of erratic behavior,

including stealing lunches, damaging property, and making inappropriate comments to co-workers. This behavior, coupled with his location and selection of female victims, led investigators to suspect him in the murders of Julie and Lolly. Surveillance videos showed Rice entering the park on May 25th and May 26th, around the time Julie and Lolly disappeared. He denied being in the park on these days, but admitted to being there on June 1st. The circumstantial evidence mounted against him, and on April 10th, 2001, Attorney General John Ashcroft announced Rice's indictment in the murder of Julie Williams and Lolly Winans.

Prosecutors alleged that Rice enjoyed assaulting women because they were more vulnerable and that he harbored disdain for LGBTQ individuals, claiming the women deserved to die for their perceived sexual orientation. In 1999, the FBI placed an undercover agent with Rice at the Federal Corrections Center in Petersburg, Virginia, where the agent recorded conversations that provided further insight into Rice's mindset. In one recorded conversation, Rice admitted to limited relationships with women and expressed a preference for pornography, which he substituted for meaningful human interactions.

Fellow inmates described him as deeply immersed in adult content, with alleging that he possessed magazines featuring BDSM imagery. Despite this mounting evidence, including a hair found at the crime scene that was tested and did not match Rice, the case struggled to make progress due to the lack of forensic evidence linking him directly to the murders. In October 2003, a new DNA test developed for Y-STRs, Y-chromosome short tandem repeats, showed that DNA on the duct tape used to bind Ollie's wrist did not match Rice's DNA, and this raised significant doubts about his involvement. Without strong forensic evidence,

the defense was able to successfully challenge the circumstantial case against Rice. The defense highlighted several issues, statements made by a couple camping in the park the night that the women were murdered, a phone call Rice made to a gay rights center in California, and audio tapes submitted by the government, and alleged attempts by

investigators to manipulate witnesses who saw the women in the park. The case fell apart, and on February 25, 2004, Judge Moon dismissed the charges against Rice without prejudice, meaning that he could still be charged at a later date. The loss of two lives serves as a stark reminder of the dangers that can lurk even in the most peaceful places. As authorities continue their investigation, their families are left grappling with the unimaginable grief. Julie and Laura's story highlights the need for vigilance and safety while exploring the

wilderness. Though the trails may grow quiet again, the memory of their tragedy will not fade for those left behind. Ireland is my home and I love it here, but there's no denying it's a very strange place with a very violent past. We love a good ghost story here, and I think half the pubs and churches and county awfully are supposed to be haunted. But I've got a little theory regarding our affinity with the macabre. You see, when your lush green emerald isle is thus because it's been watered with the blood of countless conflicts, a daft old story about some whaling apparition is considered

entertainment. The story I've got for you today isn't one of ghouls, ghosts, or goblins. It's something that actually took place in a little village named Kilmula. An old Gaelic Kilmula means the forested hill, which isn't a very creative name for a place that sits on a hill with a load of trees on it, but it was there for hundreds upon hundreds of years, before a slow steady decline saw it abandoned and derelict. Being right on the border between Great Britain and Free Ireland, the area around Kilmula became a hotspot for cross-border arm smuggling from the 60s onwards.

At any one time, the place was either crawling with police, British Army or the IRA, which was naturally a lot of bother for the folks living there. And so by the early 90s, the place was a ghost town. I nail all that because my granddad grew up in Kilmula, and I thought that he'd be sad to see his childhood home a crumbling ruin that doesn't even appear on maps after about 2010. But he once told me that Kilmula becoming a derelict was the best thing to ever happen to it.

He said it was a terrible place where terrible things happened, and he was glad his family moved away when they did. I was in my late 20s when he told me that, and it stunned the rest of my family as much as it did me. We'd always assumed that he'd had quite a happy childhood, but it turned out our granddad had never really talked about growing up in Kilmula. He'd mentioned old school friends here and there. He'd often spoken of his family too, but he'd stayed relatively quiet about his place of

birth. So much so that when he did finally tell us about it, we could barely believe our ears. According to Grandad, Kilmula was, for want of a better word, cursed. He was deadly serious when he said it was a place where terrible things happened, and nearly one Christmas evening, once we'd all settled after dinner, he told us a story that I'll never forget. According to Grandad, Kilmula had been the site of many a massacre, even before three quarters of the village was slaughtered by Cromwell's army back in the seventeenth century.

But it was the events following Kilmula's reconstruction that gave the village its reputation. There were all kinds of strange deaths and disappearances. People went mad or developed strange illnesses. But without a shadow of a doubt, the worst thing that happened during Grandpa's childhood happened during Joseph Flaherty's Christmas shindig. The Flaherty family owned a small farm on the opposite side of the River Blackwater, and on it they had a farmhouse, a few fields, and a whiskey distillery.

They weren't exactly a wealthy family by any stretch of the imagination, but they had a few friends and employees and they liked to throw a little shindig every Christmas to say thank you for everyone's love and hard work. As you can imagine, the presence of a distillery on the land made the Flaherty's shindigs very popular affairs, and none were so popular as their Christmas get-together. Year after year, they threw the best party in the whole of County Monaghan, until one year in the early 30s, when the Flaherty family threw their final shindig. As November rolled over into December and festive feeling began to

spread among the townsfolk, people began to look forward to the annual Christmas shindig. But then one night, someone pinned a note to the Flaherty's door, and roughly speaking, this is what it said. Your irreverence for the holy season has gone on long enough. Your irreverence for the holy season has gone on long enough. Proceed and there will be consequences." The note was evidently referring to the Christmas shindig, which given the abundance of whiskey on the premises, were always rowdy affairs where music was played long into the night. But the note wasn't signed and nor did they specify what those consequences might be. Furious inquiries were made, with the family patriarch Joseph demanding to know who'd

pinned the note to their door. He asked almost everybody in Kilmola, face to face, demanding each of them to swear they knew nothing of the note or its author. Most people were horrified and told Joseph that not only had it not been them that left the note, but he'd be the first person they told if they found out. Convinced it was merely a lone killjoy, hoping to ruin his fun, old Joe Flaherty went ahead with planning his shindig. In fact, one might say in typical Irish fashion, he redoubled his efforts as a show of defiance.

He organized for a full band to travel down from Monaghan town, promised a festive feast that outdid anything that had come before, and according to Grandad, was even rumored to have purchased a few bottles of the finest French champagne from a purveyor in Dublin. As the weeks went by, and the day to the shindig approached, granddad remembered people getting more and more excited with each passing day. People had to work very hard back then to maintain what little they had, so the idea of being able to let their hair down and dance away their worries was, obviously, of massive appeal, and it appealed to a hell of a lot of people too

Usually the Flaherty family extended invitations to friends families and employees But that year they told their employees to bring their friends and their friends friends and just about anyone who'd fancied a good old-fashioned piss-up and then before long half of County Monahan was expecting the night of their lives in the old Flaherty house, but not Grandad. He said the Flaherty's Christmas shindigs were no place for a child. And with all that drink and all those unmarried young people, it was safe to say that some very ungodly things occurred at those shindigs. But that's exactly why my Grandad's older brother, so my great uncle, was so excited

to attend. He'd had his eye on a girl from the next town over, Molly or Holly or whatever, and having heard that she was planning on attending, he was dead set on going himself to try and court her. But as it turns out, going to that shindig was the biggest mistake he ever made. And so on the night of the party, all the attendees head off in their finest clothes and dancing shoes, all intending on having the night of their lives. Some weren't expected home until the wee small hours of the morning, and others not until

the following day. So at first their unexpected absences were met with nothing but assumptions of a grand old hootenanny. County Monahan's wives and mothers weren't best pleased, that much is true, and Grandad remembers his mum getting in a right old narc that my brother failed to come home. But after the morning and afternoon passed with no sign whatsoever of any returning party-goers, people began to worry. When it became evident that not a single person that had been to that party had returned home, a group of the older and more responsible menfolk walked all the way over to Flaherty

Farm to see what the crack was. Apparently, they knew something was wrong from how quiet the place was as they approached, but it was only once they were inside that they saw how terrible things truly were. That winter had been an exceptionally cold one, and the weather had been equally grim on the night of the Christmas shindig. So instead of heading home when suitably sauced, the partygoers saw fit to sleep wherever they could find a spot.

People slept on couches, and armchairs, on the floor, on the table, anywhere they could find a space and they nestled into their dreamless, boozy slumbers. And for most of them, the places they chose to sleep were the places they died. At some point, we suspect very early in the morning, a group of men approached the Flaherty farm and quietly made their way into the farmhouse. There, almost thirty people slept in the morning, a group of men approached the Flaherty farm and quietly made their way into the farmhouse. There almost thirty people slept in the home's many rooms, many of them in a deep and dreamless sleep from all the whiskey they'd guzzled down the night before. Then after quietly creeping among the sleeping revelers, the interlopers began to silently

slaughter them. One by one, they sliced into their throats, or drove their knives into their hearts, working quickly, quietly, and with devastating effect. When people started to wake up here and there, they were set upon to silence their screams. Then when the killers lost control of the situation, they produced pistols and opened fire. We know all this because the police examined the scene some time afterwards and were quite easily able to determine

who had been killed in their sleep with a blade versus who had been shot while trying to escape or fight back. We also know the killers once again pinned a note to the Flaherty's door. We warned them. It was all in red. Granddad said that almost every family in County Monahan lost a loved one on that morning, and what followed became known as the Black Christmas of 1943.

What should have been a season of joy and goodwill became a season of mourning and funerals, and an awful lot of police officers had to work over Christmas when they'd otherwise thought they'd be free to enjoy their goose and their Christmas pudding with family. The people who committed the act of mass murder were never found. The police believed they'd found the boot prints of three men leading off in the direction of the nearby river. But it's there that the trail ran cold, quite literally, as the river was so cold it was close to freezing over.

The police suspected the killers had waded down the river in order to avoid leaving tracks as it was too shallow in many parts to effectively row a boat. But to a person, it's not exactly ankle deep either. Whoever killed all those people were content to wade through a freezing cold river, possibly for miles, in order to properly cover their tracks. Granddad said that that made some people think the killers were not human, but to me, that just shows how psychopathically determined they were to avoid punishment. The police searched high and low for them, questioned every priest in County Monaghan

to see if they knew anyone who might be capable of such a thing, but not a soul could help them. My great uncle had been one of those murdered at the party, supposedly being one of the last to die while trying to fight back against his killers. Granddad said that gave him consolation, but their mother was distraught. He could have died in his sleep, at peace and unaware, but instead, her son died terrified, at the hands of killers who never saw justice for their crimes. The grief of losing their son was partly why the family moved away to begin with, but like Granddad said, there was other stuff going on around Kilmula that he called unnatural.

He died before telling us any more detailed stories about the bad things which happened to his old hometown, which to me, both is and isn't a shame. I'd have loved to have learned more about it, but at the same time, I'm glad he didn't have to go picking at old wounds. This is an ad by BetterHelp. Let's share our thoughts on the rise of workplace stress and how you can take this summer to focus on your wellness with small steps to manage your workday challenges. Workplace stress is a big deal these days, and it's affecting our mental health, with about 61% of people around the world feeling more stressed than usual at work. While we can't ditch work completely to escape stress, we can certainly take little steps towards wellness to help make things better.

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in. I had guided plenty of people through the Montana wilderness before, but from the moment I met the German, I knew that this trip was going to be a little different. He was an older man, ordinary enough in appearance, average height, brown hair, a practical jacket and boots, but there was something about the way that he carried himself that set me on edge. He seemed polite, but distant, and he rarely spoke. My job was to take him up to a ridge deep in the forest, a place few people ventured

to, and he didn't say why he wanted to go there, just that it was important to him, and we'd long since learned not to pry into our clients' affairs. People come out here for all kinds of reasons. To find themselves, to lose themselves, to see something they can't find anywhere else. And most folks are pretty friendly and open, but something about this German made me feel uneasy. Maybe it was the way he acted, calm but insistent, or maybe it was the way he seemed to already know the route despite hiring me as his guide. The first few hours of the hike

were uneventful. The forest was quiet with the kind of stillness that you only get in late fall. The leaves were mostly down, covering the ground in damp yellows and browns, and the evergreen stood dark and heavy against the gray sky. The German walked close behind me, and his boots were crunching in rhythm with mine. Every so often I'd glance back and catch him looking off into the trees, like he was expecting to see something there. But then, whenever I asked if everything was all right, he'd just nod or say, yes, very quick and abrupt.

He didn't talk much, but when he did, it wasn't idle chatter. He mentioned how quiet the forest was and then occasionally said much weirder stuff like how alive it felt even in its stillness. He talked about how places like this seemed untouched by time, how they could make you feel small in the best of ways. His words were thoughtful, but there was sort of a strange edge to them, like he was speaking less to me and more to himself. It was the kind of talk that stays with you even if you don't quite know why.

We stopped for lunch near a creek, and the water was kind of low, sluggish and brown with fallen leaves, and I offered him some of my jerky. He refused it, eating his own food quietly, which was wrapped neatly in wax paper. He didn't offer any and I didn't ask, and there was nothing unusual about it, but the way he ate made me feel uneasy, like I was intruding on something private. As we climbed together, the trees began to thin and the wind began to pick up. It howled through the gaps in the ridgeline, rattling the branches and tugging at my hat, but the Germans seemed unfazed.

He walked steadily, his gaze fixed ahead like he knew exactly where he was going, and the higher we climbed, the quieter the forest became. Even the wind seemed muted. No birds, no rustling leaves, nothing but our steps in the occasional creek of a swaying tree. The ridge came into view in the late afternoon, a jagged line of rocks and scrubby trees silhouetted against the darkening sky. And as we crested the final rise the landscape opened up and I could see the valley below. There was a house down there, a large ranch house looking thing nestled in the middle

of nowhere. It stood out starkly against the forest surrounding it when it was the first time I'd ever laid eyes on the place. I pointed it out, expecting the German guy to show some interest, but he barely glanced at it. Instead, his focus remained on the ridge. He told me that he didn't need me to go any further, that I could wait there while he went on alone.

Now, I wasn't about to argue. I'd been feeling a growing pressure in my chest since we started the climb, so I was more than happy to stay put while he walked the last 30 feet or so on his own. I watched him as he hiked the final stretch. His movements were steady, deliberate almost like he was walking towards something he'd been expecting for a long time. When he reached the top, he stood there for a while, looking out over the valley. The wind had died completely and the silence

was eerie, to say the least. He didn't seem to care about the view or the mansion below. He just stood there, still as a tree, like he was listening to something only he could hear. When he came back down, his face was calm, almost serene, but there was something in his eyes that was very unsettling to me. It looked darker, deeper, like he'd seen something up there that had changed him. He told me we were done, that I'd done my part and I could head back down. He said he'd follow shortly, but I didn't wait to see if he would. The sun was almost at the horizon as I descended and the forest grew darker with every step that we took, and the trail felt longer than I remembered.

The trees closer together almost. By the time I reached the trailhead the stars were out but the night didn't feel empty. It almost felt crowded, like something was moving just out of sight. But I didn't look back. Not once. Now about two weeks later I was finishing dinner when I heard a knock at the door. It was unexpected and the knock was very firm. Too loud for some casual visitor. Now I got up from the table and went to answer. Standing on the other side were two men in suits who

looked to be very serious. And one of them asked if I was me. Now, I don't want to say my own name, but I nodded. And they flashed their badges telling me that they were FBI. And that's when my heart dropped and my blood started to pump. The taller one spoke first, saying that they needed me to come with them for questioning due to a matter of national security. I asked them what it was about, but the other agent told me that they couldn't say, and he then reiterated that it was urgent but I could gather my things before leaving.

I grabbed my jacket and phone and they followed me to their black SUV parked out front, and as we drove I tried to make sense of this situation as my mind was racing with a million different questions. Now we arrived in an office where I was led into a small, cold room lit by buzzing fluorescent lights containing a metal table and two chairs. One of the agents stayed with me while the other left. I sat down, my hands resting on the table as the agent across from me opened a folder. The agent asked if I knew why I was there, and hands resting on the table as the agent across from me opened a folder. The agent asked if I knew why I was there, and replied honestly that I had no idea. He looked at me closely, as if searching for clues in my expression and then slid a photograph

across the table. It showed a man in his thirties with dark hair and sharp features, and I stared at it, confused and said I didn't recognize him. The agent continued his cold stare as he questioned me about recent hikes, the people I'd guided, and where I'd been. At least an hour passed, with repeated questions trying to trip me up, finally, a second agent returned and handed his partner a new photograph which he placed in front of me.

This time the man in the photo looked older with graying hair and a very weathered face. It was the German. I told them that he looked like the man that I had guided a few weeks ago and the agents exchanged a look before asking me for more details about the hike. The agents exchanged a look before asking me for more details about the hike. I explained that he had booked a private hike in Montana with me, didn't say much, and paid in cash. He seemed polite, and we had only discussed the trails, mountains, and wildlife. And after a long, tense period of questioning, the agents seemed to accept my answers.

One of them stood up, thanked me for my cooperation, and offered to drive me home. As we headed back, I couldn't stop thinking about the man. Who was he? Why were they so interested? And when we reached my house, the taller Asian handed me a card and said that if I remembered anything else, I was to call that number on the card. I just nodded and took the card and asked if I would hear from them again and they, guy just sort of simply replied, possibly.

And they drove off, leaving me standing in my driveway. The night was quiet but my mind was racing and I couldn't shake the feeling that my ordinary life had brushed against something much bigger and darker than I could ever understand. I went inside, locked the door, and stared at the card in my hand, wondering who the hell I'd taken on that hike. It was a Monday, exactly one week before Christmas, when I arrived home from work to find a package on my family's front porch. I was in my final year of high school and I'd landed myself a holiday job so I could buy gifts. But since I was on the early shift and finished around 2 or 2.30,

I used to get home way earlier than my mom and dad when it was still light outside. It was addressed to my dad around the size of a shoebox, and had Handle with Care written on the plain brown wrapping paper. It didn't look like a Christmas gift, but since it was that time of the year, I figured that's what it was. I carefully picked it up and immediately noticed that it felt much heavier than it looked. I remember thinking, okay, whatever's inside must have been expensive. Because the weight of it, coupled with the handle with care thing, that made me think that it was some dishware, maybe even a car stereo, the kind of thing that he was into.

Carefully, I set it down on the kitchen table, trying to figure out who it might be from. My dad didn't have many friends, and he spent most of his time at work, so I figured it was either from a client or someone from his small circle of friends. I didn't put too much thought into it though, because all would be revealed come Christmas when he opened it. At least, that's what I thought. Mom came home a few hours later, then Dad was the last to get home at around six that evening. We showed him the package, the second that he'd stepped in the kitchen, then after making coffee and asking us about our days, Dad took the package up to his office. Mom told him that he should wait till Christmas before opening it, but Dad was right when

he said nothing on the package marked it out as a gift, and the wrapping paper was plain and there wasn't any sort of Merry Christmas written on the tag. The only distinctive marking it had was my dad's name, so he figured it was something to do with work and wouldn't be particularly exciting. The last thing my mom said to him was something like, well, if it's edible at least share some with us. And he said he would and then he walked out of the kitchen. Seconds after my dad carried the package up to his office, I finished my coffee, put the

cup in the sink, and then walked into the family room and flopped down on the couch in front of the TV. I was flicking through the channels when I called out to my mom asking what time dinner was going to be ready. I didn't get to finish that sentence though. I was midway through when we both heard this very tremendous bang coming from upstairs, and we met each other in the hallway. Mom and myself I mean and then ran upstairs to see what the hell made that noise. Mom made it to the door of my dad's office first, and when she opened it, I didn't see

what was inside. I just sort of smelled this burning of chemicals before mom started to scream. And what happened next was kind of a blur. I remember looking into the office and seeing my father, but then immediately slamming the door closed again because he wasn't him anymore. It was a complete mess in there. Pieces of him were everywhere. And I knew he was dead.

There was no bringing him back and there was so much blood and bits of body everywhere that my gut reaction was to just not want to see him. My priority was mom, and it kind of amazes me how I figured all that out in a fraction of a second, totally wordlessly. She saw what she saw and screamed, like you might expect any regular person to do when they see their life partner blown apart in front of them. But with me, it was like a shutdown, emotionallyotionally, I mean. So I could deal with the fact that my mom was having a complete nervous breakdown. Right before my eyes.

I mean given what she'd seen, what we'd just seen, there was no telling what she was going to do. The only thing I could get her to focus on was calling 911, so that's what we did. But then, she told the 911 operator what had happened, and then that sent her into a spiral again. She wailed and cried and passed the phone over to me, and I had to leave the room just to be able to focus on what was coming out of my mouth. It was terrible.

Without a doubt the single worst thing I've ever experienced, and I know for a fact that I'll never get over it. But that's not because it was so sudden or violent. It's because even all these years later, we have no idea who sent that package or why. The only clue I got is how people at his job acted in the time after his funeral. Dad worked for some import or export company that operated out of Los Angeles and San Diego. He made them a lot of money, and he was paid handsomely for his services. The company was amazing in the initial aftermath of his death.

They paid all of his funeral costs, made sure the life insurance and pension money came through, and even offered to pay for me and my mom to head off on a vacation to Hawaii for about a month, though we didn't accept that offer. And when it came time for me to try and find out what Dad actually did for them, as in what his job was, they completely shut down and started stonewalling us. They basically said that they were more than happy to assist with any further financial costs in relation to Dad's murder, but when it came time to finding out so much as a scrap of information about how he actually made them their money, that was against company policy.

They promised that they'd work hand in hand with the cops should they reach out to talk to them, but then according to those very same cops, the company only did the bare minimum that they were legally required to do, and then their lips were sealed. As one cop put it, they went out of their way to ensure that we only had a vague job title and description in the form of product acquisition, and very little else. We didn't know what his day to day looked like, we didn't know the names of the people he worked with, and when it came to the possibility of Dad making any enemies through his job, his bosses and co-workers were less than helpful.

It made no sense to us at the time. How could they be so helpful and not get in trouble with the law for, I don't know, obstruction of justice or something like that. Well they had lawyers, a lot of them, who helped them stay well within the legal guidelines while at the same time keeping us and the cops almost completely in the dark. We had no idea who had sent that bomb, no idea why they'd wanted to kill my father, and no idea how the hell they'd managed to make the whole thing completely untraceable. The only thing the cops could think of was that whoever built that bomb and delivered

it to our house had been hired as a professional to do a job. In other words, my dad was killed by a corporate hitman. They never found the guy that did it, and we never found if anyone paid to have him killed and if so, who. The pain has gotten easier over the years, and Mom definitely still struggles with it from time to time, but in terms of being able to function as a family, things have gotten a lot better. The only thing I've struggled with is the resentment that I feel towards the people

he worked with, the people who abandoned us when we needed them most, and the people I'm pretty sure have intimate knowledge of the circumstances in which my dad was murdered. I've had two different therapists tell me that, if I let it, my resentment will be the thing that destroys me. But I disagree. I think the only people who will really suffer if I let that happen are the people who know what happened to my dad As a wilderness guide of almost ten years' experience, I always prided myself on being able to handle situations the wilderness might throw at me. Years of guiding had taught me how to stay calm and make quick decisions in the face

of danger, but nothing had prepared me for what happened that day on the trail. It seemed like just another morning. I was at the trailhead, checking my gear when a car pulled up. A man stepped out, pale and very disheveled, wearing a mismatched outfit. He looked at a place like he'd stepped straight from a city sidewalk into this very remote mountain trail. I was supposed to be alone that day, but apparently a last minute booking had changed that. I gave him a nod, wondering what he'd gotten himself into, but since he was paying for

my guidance, I was here to provide that. We started off slowly, the trail meandering through thick woods, damp leaves crunching underfoot, and the air was very cool and was damp from a recent rain. He didn't say much, which suited me just fine. I preferred my clients to enjoy the peace and quiet, to soak up the beauty of the wild outdoors. After an hour or so, we stopped for a break, but the man couldn't seem to sit still. I shrugged it off, assuming he was just nervous. Everyone got a bit jittery on their first wilderness hike, then as we pressed on, he started lagging behind.

Normally I would have encouraged him to keep up, but I could tell that he was struggling and I slowed my pace, keeping an eye on him. The man seemed almost disoriented, occasionally glancing back as though something was following us up on that trail, but there was nothing there but trees and rocks and when I asked him if he was okay, he told me he was fine. Hours passed and we finally reached a clearing. I suggested that we take a longer break and give him time to rest, and he nodded absently leaning against a tree, and I noticed that he was almost shaking slightly, but I just

attributed that to the chill in the air. I asked if he was okay, though it was more of a formality than a real concern, and he didn't respond. As we continued, I could sense that he was getting more agitated. His eyes darted around, fixating on shadows, looking over his shoulder more frequently. Now I kept my distance, not wanting to crowd him, but also not sure what to make of his behavior. I figured he was just tense about being out here alone with a guide that he didn't know. But then suddenly, he stopped in his tracks.

I turned to ask if he was alright, but before I could, he lunged at me. I stumbled back trying to maintain my balance. He was wide-eyed, his face contorted with a mix of fear and anger, and he clawed at me but I managed to sidestep him. I yelled at him saying something like, what the hell are you doing? But he didn't respond. He just kept coming, screaming incoherently, and I backed away and my heart was pounding. And the man was no longer the quiet, nervous client that I'd started the day with.

He was a serious threat. And panic gripped me. But I forced myself to keep calm. My instincts kicked in and I started thinking about survival. I moved slowly, trying to keep my distance, and as he circled me, I wondered if he was having some sort of mental breakdown. I thought about the nearest town, how far it was from there, and I knew that I had to find a way to escape, but he was blocking the path.

The thought of using force crossed my mind. I had my survival knife with me, but I hesitated. The man was clearly disturbed. He was not acting rationally, and if I hurt him, it wouldn't be self-defense. Not in the truest sense of the term. It would be a choice to end someone's life who might still be able to otherwise get help. And I couldn't do that, not unless it was the only option left. It would be a choice to end someone's life who might still be able to otherwise get help. And I couldn't do that, not unless it was the only option left.

I backed away slowly, moving towards the edge of the clearing. He followed, still ranting, but without actually saying anything. I wished that I could read his mind and understand what had brought him to this state, but all I had was the sight of a very broken man, lost in his own nightmare. The night was closing in and I knew that I had to make a move soon or risk getting trapped out in the dark woods. I glanced around for something to use as a non-lethal weapon, but there was nothing except a few fallen branches and rocks, which would either do nothing or actually risk seriously injuring

him. There was no safe space here, no easy escape. I was completely on my own. Finally he stopped and for a moment it seemed like he might have calmed down. But then he looked at me again, and that madness returned to his eyes. I turned and ran, not looking back. I didn't know if I could outpace him, but I had to try. I couldn't stay there any longer.

Branches whipped at my face as I dashed through the underbrush, desperate to get away. My foot caught a root and I stumbled, nearly falling, but I got back up and kept going. Behind me I could hear him crashing through the forest, getting closer. I had to put distance between us. I had to survive. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other, trusting that my training would guide me through. And as I stumbled out of the forest and onto the gravel road, my body was battered and

bruised. The adrenaline that had fueled my escape was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a dull ache in my muscles and a pounding headache. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the landscape, but I barely noticed. I was just relieved to be back on solid ground. I walked the last mile to headquarters in the days, the events of that day replaying in my mind like some sort of bad dream, and my hands were dirty and scratched and my clothes hung off of me in these strips, and every

step felt heavy and each breath was very labored. I was exhausted, both mentally and physically. The familiar sight of our headquarters provided little comfort, though. It was a small temporary outpost nestled at the edge of the woods where we handled administrative tasks and gathered supplies. Inside the main tent, the radios hummed with the usual chatter but everything seemed muffled and distant. I approached the senior guide who was on duty and he looked up as I approached, asked me

where I'd been and said that they were all starting to get worried. I tried to speak, but my voice came out hoarse and cracked. Though in the end I told them the situation, how the client had seemed normal at first, but then something had snapped, how he attacked me without warning, his eyes wild with his fear and anger, and how I'd managed to escape running through the woods until I found my way back. I didn't leave out any details, trying to make him understand the gravity of what had occurred.

When I finished, the guy just nodded. He didn't even seem surprised. He basically said something like, eh, we get these cases every now and then. People push too hard, they come out here unprepared, and it just sort of breaks them. The wilderness can be very unforgiving. The thought of him coming back filled me with dread though, but the guide reassured me that they'd send a team to investigate and notify the authorities. He said that I'd done the right thing by escaping, that surviving was all that mattered. And relief sort of washed over me, but it definitely was tangled with a sense of regret.

I couldn't stop thinking that I should have done more, noticed something sooner, or acted differently to prevent what had happened. When I finished filling out the incident report, the senior guide took it and briefly reviewed it, then said that they would handle things with the authorities. He reminded me that I was safe now, and that's all that mattered, and I nodded, too shaken to offer much of a response. My mind raced with flashes of the encounter, that man in the woods, and the fear that I felt, a very desperate struggle.

I wanted to forget, but I knew that was going to be impossible. And that evening, I just sat alone in the corner of the tent while the other guides carried on with their tasks. My thoughts kept circling back to that moment, the wild, desperate look in his eyes as he lunged at me. I didn't know if he was still out there, wondering those woods, but I hoped that he'd be found and taken somewhere safe. Later, the senior guide told me a search party had been sent out looking for him. They would find him, he assured me, but it didn't ease the heaviness in my chest. All I wanted in that moment was to go home and leave all this behind, but I knew the memory would follow me.

The job held its dangers, and that day would always be a reminder. It was a quiet evening, just a few days before Christmas. I was alone in my flat, enjoying my first evening of Christmas leave with my dog, Max, who was curled up at the foot of my couch. The weather was really nasty outside and the flat that I was in at the time was a corner unit, so whenever the wind blew particularly hard, it created this cartoonish howling sound which, if you were nice and warm inside, was actually quite comforting. It was about six o'clock and I was on my couch under a pile of blankets, sipping a cup of coffee when I heard a knock at my door.

It wasn't a loud knock, but it was sudden enough to startle me. It wasn't often that anyone knocked on my door, because we had an intercom system for the building. If someone was knocking, it was most probably one of my neighbors. I didn't hesitate to get up and walk down the corridor towards the front door, but out of curiosity, I had looked through the peephole so I could see who it was. And there was a man, dressed as Father Christmas, with a clipboard in one hand and one of those

plastic charity collection cups in the other. You know, the kind with just a little slot in the top to put money in. He was wearing the whole Santa Claus getup, hat and fake silvery beard included, so I couldn't see exactly who was underneath it. But the clipboard and collection cup had me assuming that it was one of my neighbors collecting for charity. I cracked the door open just a sliver, keeping the chain lock in place and then said, hi there, and the assumption that he was about to explain what charity

he was collecting for, etc. But after taking an innocent looking step towards the door and raising the collection cup, the man lunged at the door and pressed his weight against it in an attempt to force it open. His eyes were the only part of him that I could really see, but the way they changed in that moment was absolutely terrifying. They were so wide, and his face turned so red. But as he pushed, the door chain caught with a loud metal snap.

It was holding but just barely, and I remember how panic rose up in me as he continued to push. The door rattled on its hinges as the man shoved even harder, growling sometimes under his breath as he forced his hand through the gap, his fingers clawing at the chain. Everything happened in a blur. I tried to push the door shut but he was too strong, and when the chain suddenly snapped, the door flew open, and he was inside. As he came towards me, the smell of alcohol hit me like a wave. I screamed, backing away as fast as I could, but the apartment was small, there was nowhere

to run. My back hit the wall and he was on me, his breath hot and rancid as his hands grabbed my arms, and he used his weight to pin me in place. Then I heard the low, guttural growl, cutting through the chaos like some blade, and in the corner of my vision, I saw Max leap up off the couch, his hackles raised and teeth bared. And I'd never seen him like that before.

He'd always been such a sweet, gentle dog with people and other animals, but that night, he was transformed into a furious, snarling beast. Max launched himself at the man and bit the arm that he was using to hold me. The man screamed and then loosened his grip as he tried to shake Max off. I remember seeing skin and blood under his torn red suit as Max held on, growling loudly the whole time. The man stumbled back, hammering his other fist against the top of Max's head, but he was relentless.

He bit and clawed, his sheer determination driving the man further away from me, giving me time to scramble to my feet. My legs trembled so badly that I could barely stand, but adrenaline pushed me to grab the first thing I could reach, which happened to be a very heavy wooden Buddha statue from the shelf. I hurled it at the man, point blank too, and it hit him so hard in the face that it split his forehead open. He shouted something terrible, staggering backwards while

bringing up a hand to his face. Max let go of his arm, but then chased him, all the way down the corridor, snapping at his legs as he staggered back towards the open doorway, with blood streaming down his face and onto that fake silvery white beard. He stumbled out of my flat, but Max stopped at the threshold to bark voraciously at him as the man disappeared down the stairs. No one came out of their flats to help me. Most had gone home to see family elsewhere, I think, and anyone in those flats either didn't hear the commotion or just pretended not to. For a moment after I pulled Max in and closed the door, there was silence except for Max's

ragged breathing. I managed to walk back into my living room, then I sat down on the couch again, trembling in a state of disbelief. It all happened so suddenly, and it had ended just as quickly. I think that it must have been no more than two minutes from the knock on my door to me sitting back down on my couch again. It was all surreal. Max trotted over to me, his tail wagging slightly as he looked up at me with this sort of I did a good job look, and I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his fur and I started to cry. Eventually

I managed to pull myself together enough to call the police. They arrived quickly and I explained everything and they examined the scene before taking a few photos of the broken door chain. They were both very nice and as one of the officers knelt down to pet Max he said, This one's a little hero, isn't he? And I couldn't have agreed more. If it hadn't been for him, I don't know what would have happened, and thinking about it makes my stomach churn.

The man in the Santa suit was caught not far away, still bleeding from the bites my dog had given him. The police later told me that he had a criminal record, a very long one, which honestly didn't surprise me. But what did surprise me was how brazen he'd been about it. How he'd just knocked on someone's door, almost at random. But it wasn't at random, not according to the police. It couldn't have been.

And what they told me would come to haunt me for a very long, long time. And that night in bed, as I laid there with Max curled up beside me, I couldn't sleep. The apartment felt too quiet, too dark, and every little noise made my heart race. But whenever the fear threatened to overwhelm me, I reached out and rested my hand on Max's back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He was my protector, my best friend, and I never felt so fortunate to have him in my life. Christmas came and went, but the break-in had a way of overshadowing things. I asked my mom not to tell anyone about it over Christmas dinner,

because it was a chance for me to try and forget about it, even if it was just for an afternoon. But even then, it was still there in the background. I felt a lot less safe back in my flat, and any safety that I felt before felt like a silly little illusion, but I also felt a deep sense of gratitude. I was okay. Max had saved me, and that was all that mattered. From that day onward, I never took his loyalty for granted. I gave him extra treats, took him on extra long walks, and gave him all the love I could

possibly give. He had been there for me when I needed him most, and I would spend the rest of my life repaying that debt. It had been a very good day. I had led a small group of hikers through one of my favorite trails. They had left hours ago and now was enjoying the quiet of the woods, and as I turned a corner I saw something very strange. At first I thought it was a shadow or a branch, but as I got closer I saw it was a person. They were lying still, partly hidden by the plants, and my heart started to race as I got closer, I saw it was a person. They were lying still, partly hidden by the plants, and my heart started to race as I

dropped my pack and ran to them. It was a man, maybe in his late 30s, wearing hiking clothes. His face seemed to be pale and his breath was slow, and his skin felt cold and damp. I checked his pulse, but it was weak. I called out, hoping that he would wake up, but he didn't move, and I didn't know what had happened. Maybe he had fallen, or was too thirsty or sick, and I didn't have time to figure it out.

He needed help right away, so I grabbed my radio, but I knew this part of the park didn't get good signals. I tried anyway, but it didn't work. The nearest ranger station was over three miles away and the trail was rough, and I had to decide in that moment, leave him and get help or carry him myself, and I couldn't just leave him there alone. Okay, let's do this, I said, more to myself than to him, and I used the gear in my pack to make a sling and tied his arms across his chest,

and then I lifted him onto my back. He was heavy, but I carried lots of gear on hikes so I knew that I could do it, adjusting his height, and I started walking. The first part was the hardest. The muscles burned, and the rocky trail made it hard to keep my balance. The sun went down, and it got dark fast. I stopped to get my headlamp and its light cut through those shadows helping me see the path, and as I walked I kept listening to make sure that it was still breathing, and I was glad

to hear the faint sound of it. I talked to him as I went, even though I didn't know if he could hear me. You're doing great, I told him. We're almost there. The forest at night was noisy in a way that I usually loved. Owls hooted, small animals rustled in the bushes and crickets chirped, but tonight it felt very lonely. It reminded me of how far we were from help, and the trail felt endless. My legs were tired, and my back ached from from his weight but I didn't stop for long.

It was getting colder and I could feel the chill even though I was sweating and I knew that he must have been freezing. At one point I slipped on loose gravel and fell to one knee and this pain shot through my leg and I thought that I might not be able to keep going. But then I thought of this guy, unconscious and depending solely on me. It caused me to get up, shift his weight and kept walking. I finally, after what felt like forever, saw the lights of the ranger's station, and relief gave me the energy to make it the rest of the way and I stumbled into the clearing and

shouted for help. Two rangers ran out out looking surprised and worried. I told them that I found this guy on the trail, that he was unconscious and that his breathing was shallow. The Rangers quickly laid him on a stretcher and checked him. One called for an ambulance and the others started first aid and I just sat on the bench completely exhausted. They told me I did a good job and I just sat on the bench, completely exhausted. They told me I did a good job, and I just nodded, too tired to speak. As I watched them work, I felt a very strange mix of feelings.

I was glad that he was in safe hands now, but I was worried about what had happened to him, and I felt thankful that I had the strength to carry him and the training to help. Later, I sat in the kitchen with a hot cup of coffee. One of the rangers came to tell me that he was dehydrated and overheated but was stable. They told me I did good and I just said, I'm doing my job. That night, laying on a cot that they set up for me, I just stared at the ceiling. I felt proud.

The wilderness had tested me and I had done what needed to be done. And this is why I became a guide. Not just to show people the beauty of nature, but to town of Ethel, Washington was abuzz with festive spirit. Christmas lights adorned houses and carolers filled the streets with songs of joy. Yet amidst the yuletide cheer, a sinister act shattered the peace, leaving an indelible scar on the small community. The brutal murders of Ed and Minnie Morin, an elderly couple known for their kindness and warmth, remains one of the most harrowing crimes in the region's history.

Eighty-one-year-old Ed Morin and his wife of 83 years old, Minnie, were lifelong residents of Lewis County, Washington. Married for over half a century, they were pillars of their community, admired for their unwavering dedication to their family and church. Despite their advanced age, the Morans were independent and active, spending their days tending to their farm and participating in local events. To their neighbors and friends, the Morans seemed to have everything, a happy marriage, a loving family, and a peaceful life in rural America.

No one could have imagined the terror that awaited them just one day before Christmas. On the morning of December 19th, 1985, the Moran's routine took a puzzling turn. Family members who visited their home noticed something strange. The couple's car, a green 1969 Chrysler Newport, was missing. Their home appeared undisturbed yet Ed and Minnie were nowhere to be found. A mysterious phone message left for their son suggested that something was amiss, but the message revealed no clear signs of danger. When their family tried calling, there was no answer. Neighbors reported seeing the couple earlier that morning, but their whereabouts after

leaving home were unknown. Alarmed, the family contacted the Lewis County Sheriff's Office, initiating what would become an exhaustive search. The search for the Morons ended in tragedy on Christmas Eve. Their bodies were discovered in a remote wooded area near Adna, about 15 miles from their home. Both Ed and Minnie had been shot, execution style in the back. The scene painted a grim picture. The elderly couple had been forced to kneel before being killed in cold blood. Investigators concluded that the Morons had been abducted from their home.

Evidence suggested that they were coerced into withdrawing $8,500 from their bank account at a nearby branch earlier that day. The missing Chrysler was later found abandoned in a supermarket parking lot, its interior stained with blood. News of the murder sent shockwaves through Lewis County. Ethel, a close-knit community, struggled to come to terms with the violent crime. Vigils were held to honor the morons, and locals came together to support the grieving family. The thought of such brutality inflicted upon two beloved community members was unfathomable.

They were the kindest people you could ever meet, said one neighbor. It's hard to believe anyone could harm them. Despite the outpouring of community support, the investigation faced significant challenges. Leads were scarce and the crime scene yielded few clues. Witnesses recalled seeing the morons' car on the day of their disappearance, but descriptions of the individuals involved were inconsistent. The lack of surveillance technology in the 1980s further hampered efforts to identify the culprits.

Detectives theorized that the murders were financially motivated. The forced withdrawal of $8,500 indicated that the perpetrators saw the Moran's as an easy target. However, the brutality of the crime suggested a level of malice that went beyond mere greed. Over the years, the case grew cold, and despite their best efforts, law enforcement was unable to identify any suspects. The Morons family continued to advocate for justice, refusing to let the memory of Ed and Minnie fade away. And eventually in 2012, nearly three decades after the murders, the case took a dramatic turn. Advances in forensic technology and renewed

investigative efforts led to the arrest of Rick Reif, a former resident of Lewis County who had long been suspected of involvement. Reif and his now deceased brother John Reif were believed to have targeted the Morons for their perceived wealth. The breakthrough came after witnesses came forward with new information, corroborating earlier suspicions about the Reif brothers' involvement. Additionally, investigators uncovered evidence linking Rick Reif to the crime, including testimony from individuals who had heard him boast about the murders. Rick Reif's trial in 2013 captivated the community. Prosecutors argued that Reif and his brother had abducted the morons, forced them to withdraw

money and then executed them to eliminate witnesses. They presented testimony from over a hundred witnesses, painting a chilling portrait of the events leading up to the murders. Reif's defense maintained his innocence, arguing that the evidence was circumstantial and that the case relied heavily on witness testimony from decades prior. However, the jury found the prosecution's case compelling, and after weeks of deliberation, Rick Reif was convicted of first-degree murder, robbery, kidnapping, and burglary, and he was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

For the Moran family, Rick Reif's conviction brought a sense of closure, but not peace. It doesn't bring them back, said one family member. But at least we know who did this, and they're being held accountable. The case remains a stark reminder of the darkness that can lurk beneath the surface of seemingly idyllic communities. And to this day, the murders of Ed and Minnie Moran served as a cautionary tale of the fragility of safety and the resilience of those left behind.

Nearly forty years after their tragic deaths, Eddie and Minnie Moran are remembered not for the horror they endured, but for the lives they lived. Their legacy endures through their family and the community that contributes to honor their memory. Each Christmas, a wreath is laid at their grave site, a symbol of the love and respect they inspired. While the wounds of their loss may never fully heal, the Moran story underscores the importance of seeking justice, no matter how long it takes. Their lives, though cruelly cut short,

remain a testament to the power of kindness and the enduring strength of a community united in the face of tragedy. In 2016, seasoned hiker and wilderness guide Chris Fowler set out to complete the Pacific Crest Trail. Known as the PCT, the 2,650-mile-long trail stretches from the state of Washington to the Mexican border, and traversing it had been one of Fowler's lifelong dreams. He was 30 years of age when he began his journey, and he was said to have relished the opportunity to challenge himself both mentally and physically. As a former military man, he had adapted to a life of

routine and discipline. Then as a civilian, Chris developed a longing to venture further afield than his desk job and the grocery store. Friends and family described him as someone who was always prepared for any situation, with a well-planned gear list and a careful approach to navigation. Fowler was also careful to log his journey on social media, so that friends and family would know his rough location at any one time. But when Chris's routine documentation suddenly stopped, his loved ones began to grow concerned. The PCT stretches through some of the most remote and rugged terrain in the entire United States

and presents a unique set of challenges to even the most remote and rugged terrain in the entire United States, and presents a unique set of challenges to even the most experienced hikers. It's not unheard of for people to suffer mishaps while traveling along it, with potential causes ranging from falls to exposure to wildlife encounters. Fowler, on the other hand, appears to have suffered something much more sinister and unexplainable. He started his journey at the trail's southern terminus on April 9th of 2016 near the small town of Campo, California.

He made steady progress for the first three weeks, posting photos and videos to his social media pages and was believed to be hitting his various distance goals quite comfortably. However, on May 3rd, Fowler's social media went dark. The last message that he sent was to a fellow hiker that he had met on the trail, saying that he was near a popular spot among the trail in Northern California called Castle Crags. This marked the first time Fowler's progress seemed to wane as he was at least a few days behind his intended pace, and after that his social media activities ceased, no further messages were sent, and his phone went silent. By mid-May, when Fowler failed to check in with his friends and family, their concerns began to grow.

His parents then contacted Northern California's Shasta County Sheriff's Department, and after explaining the situation, local deputies formed the vanguard of the subsequent search and rescue effort. For weeks on end, California SNR teams scoured the area surrounding Castle Crags, in the hopes of finding a clue to Fowler's whereabouts. Aerial searches, ground sweeps, and even trained sniffing dogs were deployed, but frustratingly, all efforts were fruitless. Fowler's disappearance was puzzling, not only because of his vast experience as an

outdoorsman, but also because there were no signs of struggle or distress at the locations he was known to have visited. To some, it was as if Chris Fowler had simply vanished. As the investigation continued, several theories and possible explanations began to emerge. The first involved Fowler taking an impromptu detour from the trail, possibly to visit a nearby town or to explore another section of the trail.

But without any sightings of him or evidence of habitation in the areas in question, such a theory seems improbable at best. Another less credible theory involves Fowler suffering some kind of accident or fall, which the resulting wounds either killed him instantly or rendered him immobile. Yet despite a long and far-reaching search effort, no trace of his remains or equipment were ever recovered. This is when some investigators began to suspect Chris had fallen victim to some kind of violent

criminal. The Pacific Crest Trail, while generally safe, passes through areas known for transient populations, including hikers, campers, and even criminals, who have been known to shelter among the Cascades or the Sierra Nevada when wanted by the law. No evidence of violence or criminal activity was found at any of the locations Fowler was known to have visited, but as many have pointed out, this doesn't preclude the possibility that Chris was forced, quite possibly at gunpoint, to divert from his planned route without a struggle.

Perhaps one of the most frustrating aspects of Fowler's disappearance was the complete lack of substantial forensic evidence. Not a single item of his personal belongings was ever found, and considering he was carrying his entire life in an 80-liter, 40-pound backpack, this is curious to say the least. Fowler's tent, ground sheet, sleeping bag, and spare changes of clothes were never recovered, and neither were his cooking gear, his navigation equipment, or his food and water. None of Fowler's toiletries were ever recovered, nor were his sunglasses, his phone, or the portable charging banks that he used to keep it powered.

Fowler carried a number of additional items too, but again, despite such an extensive list of possessions, not a single one of them was ever recovered from the search and rescue team's extensive area of operations. The lack of evidence fueled speculation regarding Fowler's death or a potential abduction. But without a body or direct witness, investigators were left only with disparate theories. Adding to the complexity were the challenges of searching such a vast and unforgiving landscape. The Pacific Crest Trail cuts through dense forests, alpine meadows, and remote stretches where mobile phone signals are weak or non-existent.

Such rough terrain proved a great hindrance to search and rescue efforts, while regional weather proved an equally formidable foe. Weather conditions among the Pacific mountain ranges are known to change rapidly, with fast-moving weather fronts sometimes obscuring a hiker's visibility. Coupled with terrain quite easily capable of leading someone astray, such a turn could have proven fatal to even the most experienced outdoorsmen. Despite the extensive search, it was as if Fowler had slipped through the cracks of the wilderness, leaving no trace whatsoever behind.

Years went by, but Fowler's case was not forgotten. His parents continued to appeal for information, keeping his disappearance in the public eye through social media campaigns and tear-jerking media interviews. And once a year, around the anniversary of Chris's disappearance, friends and family organize hikes in his memory, hoping that someone might have new information or come forward with a clue. But as of the time of writing this, the case remains open. Some theories persist, ranging from the possibility of a tragic accident to the idea that Fowler

could have chosen to disappear deliberately. However, there has been no concrete evidence to support such claims, and neither is there any proof that Chris was attacked or abducted. Chris Fowler's story is a stark reminder of the risks involved when venturing into the wild. It underscores the importance of preparation, the need for communication while on the trail, and the challenges faced by law enforcement when trying to solve cases in remote areas. For those who knew him, Chris remains a symbol of resilience and an enduring mystery, a reminder that even the most experienced adventurers can disappear without a trace. While the answers to what happened to Chris Fowler

may never be fully known, the story continues to prompt questions about safety in the wilderness and the thin line between exploration and danger. Nestled in the rugged beauty of Montana, Gallatin National Forest has long been a sanctuary for nature lovers and outdoor enthusiasts. Spanning over 2 million acres, its dense forests, rushing rivers, and remote trails offer a breathtaking escape from modern life.

However, in the summer of 2005, the serene wilderness became the backdrop for a chilling crime that remains etched into local memory, the Gallatin National Forest murder. On August 14, 2005, a seasoned wilderness guide, Mark Hendrix, was leading a small group of hikers on a multi-day trek through the forest's remote trails. An early riser, Hendrix often scouted ahead to ensure the path was safe for his group. That morning, as the sun's rays pierced through the towering pine trees, Hendricks noticed something unusual near a clearing by the Gallatin River.

Strewn across the forest floor were signs of a hastily abandoned campsite, a smoldering fire pit, a scattered sleeping bag, and a tipped-over camp chair. A few steps further, Hendrick stumbled upon a horrifying scene. A man, later identified as 32-year-old Ethan Grant, lay lifeless near the riverbank. His body bore multiple stab wounds and his throat had been slashed. Blood splatter patterns on nearby rocks and foliage indicated a violent struggle. Ethan Grant, a freelance journalist from Denver, Colorado, was known for his passion for outdoor adventures and his knack for storytelling.

He had come to Gallatin National Forest to work on a piece about solo wilderness camping, a trend gaining popularity among thrill seekers. Friends described Grant as meticulous and cautious, someone who meticulously planned his trips and carried an arsenal of survival gear. Local law enforcement in the Gallatin County Sheriff's Department took the lead in the investigation with the assistance from the FBI due to the possibility of interstate elements. Initial evidence collected at the scene included a bloodied hunting knife found partially submerged in the river and footprints

leading away from the campsite. Forensic analysis revealed no fingerprints on the knife, but DNA from the blood on its blade matched Grant's. Further investigation of Grant's belongings, including his tent, journal, and camera, provided few clues. His journal entries stopped abruptly on the evening of August 12th, suggesting the attack occurred later that night. Witness statements assumed provided investigators with a potential lead. A day before Grant's murder, two hikers, Sarah Mills and Jake Porter, reported encountering

a suspicious man on a nearby trail. They described him as disheveled, carrying a large backpack, and acting aggressively when they declined his request for food and cigarettes. The man, later identified as 45-year-old Thomas Blake, was a transient known to frequent the area. Blake had a history of petty crimes, including theft and assault, and was known to harbor a deep mistrust of authorities.

Investigators learned that he had been seen in Gallatin National Forest during the week of the murder. A search of local shelters and encampments eventually led to his arrest on August 18th. Under questioning, Blake initially denied any involvement in Grant's murder. However, inconsistencies in his story and mounting evidence forced his hand. Investigators found traces of blood on his shirt and his backpack that matched Grant's DNA. Blake eventually confessed, claiming he acted in self-defense after a confrontation with Grant. Blake alleged that he had approached Grant's campsite seeking food and shelter, but the

encounter turned hostile when Grant refused. According to Blake, a physical altercation ensued, during which he grabbed Grant's hunting knife and stabbed him in a panic. Forensic evidence, however, contradicted parts of Blake's accounts, suggesting a premeditated attack. Thomas Blake's trial began in early 2006 and captivated the local community. Prosecutors painted a picture of a desperate man who targeted Grant out of anger and envy. They argued that Grant's refusal to help Blake triggered a violent outburst, leading

to a brutal and unprovoked attack. The defense, meanwhile, clung to the self-defense narrative, citing Blake's transient lifestyle and lack of resources as mitigating factors. After two weeks of testimony and deliberation, the jury found Blake guilty of second-degree murder, and he was sentenced to 25 years in prison without the possibility of parole. The Gallatin National Forest murder left a lasting impact on the outdoor community. Grant's death served as a grim reminder of the potential dangers of solo camping, no matter how prepared or experienced one might be.

In the years following the crime, wilderness safety programs emphasized the importance of staying in groups, carrying communication devices and being cautious of strangers. For Mark Hendricks, the discovery of Grant's body marked a turning point in his career. Though he continued to lead wilderness treks, he became a vocal advocate for safety and security in remote areas. "'The wilderness is beautiful,' Hendricks later said in an interview, but it's not just the elements you have to be prepared for, it's the people you might encounter. To this day, visitors to Gallatin National Forest occasionally leave flowers and mementos at the clearing where Ethan Grant's life was tragically cut short.

His story remains a cautionary tale of the delicate balance between adventure and caution in the wild. Christmas Eve was cold. I was walking through the streets carrying a bag of gifts, and the sidewalks were busy and there were lights and decorations everywhere. I saw a man sitting on the curb near an empty lot, and his coat was very old and torn. He had a long beard and wore a beanie, and I thought he was homeless and needed help. I felt bad for him. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill.

I walked over and held it out to him, and he looked at me, but his eyes didn't seem thankful. He didn't look happy at all, he just sort of stared. I thought he was surprised, so I leaned down and put the money in his hand, and as soon as I did, he stood up very quickly. He was bigger than I expected, and he moved fast. I stepped back, but he grabbed my coat and pushed me down. My back hit the ground and I couldn't get up, and he started hitting me.

His fist came down hard and I tried to cover my face, but it didn't help. My head was spinning and everything hurt, and I could hear people walking by, but no one stopped. I couldn't call for help. After a while he stopped and he stood over me, breathing heavily, and he bent down, picked up the twenty dollars and put it in his pocket, and then he walked away. I just laid there, too hurt to move, and when I finally sat up my coat was torn and my face

was bleeding. My bag of gifts was on the ground so I picked it up and the lot where the man had been sitting was empty now and I didn't know where he went. I just walked home slowly and every step hurt. The streets didn't look as cheerful anymore and the lights and decorations didn't seem bright. I just wanted to get inside and forget what happened. When I got home I sat by my window and looked outside and there was snow falling. My body hurt but I felt a lot worse on the inside. I kept thinking about the man and the look on his face.

He didn't just seem angry. That was something else, something I didn't understand. The next morning was Christmas, and I opened the gifts that I had bought for myself, but it didn't make me happy. All I could think about was that guy, and I wondered why he got so angry and why he attacked me, and I just why he got so angry and why he attacked me. And I just couldn't figure it out. I spent the rest of the day feeling uneasy.

And I kept looking out the window, but there was nothing there. And still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. And I didn't know if I would ever feel normal again. Robert Hanson, also known as the Butcher of Baker, was one of the most chilling serial killers in Alaskan history. Born on February 15th of 1939 in Esterville, Iowa, Hanson's life was marked by a troubling combination of personal struggles, a rigid upbringing, and an insatiable thirst for control and domination. Hanson grew up in a strict household, dominated by a disciplinarian father who pushed him

into long hours of work at the family bakery. As a shy, acne-ridden teenager with a severe stutter, Hanson was often the target of bullying and rejection. These experiences, particularly by girls, left deep scars, fostering resentment and fantasies of revenge. In 1967, Hanson moved to Anchorage, Alaska, seeking a fresh start. By day, he appeared to be a mild-mannered baker, married with two children and well-liked by the local community. But beneath the surface he harbored dark desires that would manifest in horrifying ways. Hanson began committing petty crimes in the 1970s, including arson and theft which

earned him brief stints in jail. However, these offenses were merely the prelude to his descent into a far more sinister pattern. Using his seemingly ordinary persona as a cover, Hansen developed a method to abduct young women, predominantly sex workers and dancers from Anchorage's streets. He would lure them with the promise of money or jobs before overpowering them. His modus operandi was uniquely sadistic. Hansen would fly his victims in his private plane to the remote wilderness of the Knick River under the pretense of being a wilderness guide.

However, once in a suitably remote location, he would release them into the wild and hunt them down like animals, fulfilling his twisted fantasies of dominance and control. This gruesome practice earned him the nickname, The Hunter. Hanson's reign of terror persisted for over a decade, with at least 17 confirmed murders between 1971 and 1983. The remoteness of the Alaskan wilderness served as the perfect cover, allowing him to commit these atrocities without detection. The victims' remains were often discovered years later, their skeletal remains scattered

across the rugged terrain, marked on Hanson's personal aviation map with small Xs. Despite his cunning, Hanson's downfall began in 1983, when a young woman named Cindy Paulson escaped his clutches. Paulson, a 17-year-old sex worker, managed to flee Hanson's home after he had brutally assaulted and restrained her. She flagged down a passing truck and provided detailed information to the police, including a description of Hanson in his home. Initially, Hanson denied any involvement, relying on his reputation as a quiet church-going

baker to deflect suspicion. However, detective's persistence, combined with Paulson's testimony, began to unravel his carefully constructed façade. A search warrant executed on Hansen's home revealed damning evidence. Firearms matching bullets found at crime scenes, jewelry belonging to victims, and Hanson's aviation map with marked locations that corresponded to known burial sites. Confronted with overwhelming evidence, Hanson eventually confessed to murdering 17 women

and assaulting dozens more. He provided investigators with chilling details about his crimes, showing no remorse for his actions. In 1984, he was sentenced to 461 years plus life without the possibility of parole. Hanson's crimes sent shockwaves through the Anchorage community and beyond, sparking widespread fear and horror. People struggled to reconcile the image of the unassuming baker with the monstrous predator he truly was.

His story also shed light on the vulnerabilities of marginalized women, particularly sex workers who often lacked the protection and advocacy needed to ensure their safety. The investigation into Hanson's crimes became a pivotal case for Alaskan law enforcement. The meticulous work of investigators, including the use of psychological profiling, and the willingness to believe the testimony of a young, traumatized victim, highlighted the importance of pursuing justice, no matter how elusive or unlikely it seemed. The case also underscored the value of forensic science, as evidence collected from Hanson's home and crime scenes played a critical role in securing his conviction.

Cindy Paulson, whose bravery ultimately led to Hanson's capture, became a symbol of resilience. Her harrowing escape and willingness to testify against her abuser demonstrated incredible courage. Her actions not only brought an end to Hanson's killing spree, but also gave voice to countless victims who could no longer speak for themselves. In the years following Hanson's conviction, the story of his crimes had been retold in books, documentaries, and even a feature film, The Frozen Ground, starring Nicolas Cage and John Cusack. These retellings serve as both a cautionary tale and a reminder of the darkness that can

lurk beneath seemingly ordinary lives. Robert Hanson died in 2014 at the age of 75. His story continues to haunt Alaska, a stark reminder of the evil that once lurked in its wilderness. The legacy of his crimes underscores the importance of vigilance, empathy, and the relentless pursuit of justice in the face spirit of Nashville, Tennessee was suddenly and violently shattered by the brutal murder of Paul Logan, a 55-year-old businessman known for his generosity and kindness of spirit. And what began as a celebration of the season turned into a chilling

tale of deceit, betrayal, and a tangled web of relationships that ultimately led to his untimely death. This story delves into the life and tragic end of Paul Logan, and the investigation that uncovered the truth behind his murder. Paul Logan was a very popular and highly respected figure within the Nashville community, and as the owner of a successful real estate company, he'd earned himself a vast fortune through the sale of local properties. He had a reputation as a hard worker and a big spender. But Paul has also built a reputation for helping those in need.

Friends and family described him as a man of integrity, someone who would regularly go out of his way to assist others. He lived alone in a modest, yet well-appointed home in the suburbs of Nashville where he often hosted holiday gatherings for friends and colleagues. On December 24th of 2011, Paul had plans to attend a Christmas Eve service at his local church followed by a dinner with close friends. When he failed to show up, concern quickly grew. Calls to his phone went unanswered, and then by Christmas morning, when he still failed to answer calls, his friends decided to check on him.

What they discovered would haunt them forever. Paul Logan was found dead in his living room, lying in a pool of blood. He had been stabbed multiple times and signs of a violent struggle were evident. Furniture was overturned and a shattered lamp lay nearby. The Christmas tree, once a symbol of holiday cheer, stood askew, its decorations scattered across the floor. The scene painted a grim picture of Paul's final moments. Investigators were called to the scene and it was immediately clear that this was no

random act of violence. There were no signs of forced entry, suggesting that Paul either knew his killer or had willingly allowed them into his home. Detectives began piecing together Paul's final hours, interviewing friends, neighbors, and colleagues. One of the first breakthroughs came from a neighbor who reported seeing an unfamiliar car parked outside Paul's home late on Christmas Eve. The description of the vehicle, a dark sedan, would later prove crucial.

As investigators delved into Paul's personal life, they uncovered a complex web of relationships. While Paul was generally well-liked, he had recently been involved in a business dispute with a former associate, Eric Matthews. The two had parted ways acrimoniously after a failed real estate deal, and Matthews had reportedly made threats against Paul. This immediately placed him on the radar of the police. As the investigation continued, forensic evidence from the crime scene provided a major lead. A blood-stained knife, believed to be the murder weapon, was

found discarded in a trash can a few blocks from Paul's home. DNA analysis revealed two profiles, Paul's and an unknown individual. At the same time, surveillance footage from nearby homes and businesses were reviewed. A camera from a neighbor's driveway captured a dark sedan matching the witness's description leaving Paul's home around the time of the murder. The vehicle was traced back to Eric Matthews, whose alibi quickly fell apart under scrutiny. Eric Matthews, a 42-year-old real estate agent, was known for his volatile temper and history of financial troubles. Investigators discovered that Matthews had been struggling to repay a substantial debt

to Paul, which had strained their relationship. Further digging revealed text messages and emails in which Matthews expressed anger and resentment toward Paul, accusing him of ruining his career. When confronted with the evidence, Matthews initially denied any involvement. However, inconsistencies in his story combined with the amounting forensic evidence eventually led to his arrest. During a search of his home,

investigators found clothes with traces of Paul's blood, as well as documents indicating his financial desperation. The trial of Eric Matthews began in the fall of 2012 and attracted significant media attention. Prosecutors painted a picture of a man driven by greed and anger, who saw Paul Logan as an obstacle to his success. They argued that Matthews had gone to Paul's home on Christmas Eve under the pretense of reconciliation, only to attack him in a fit of rage when Paul refused to forgive his debts. The defense, however, attempted to cast doubt on the evidence, suggesting that it was circumstantial

and that other individuals with motives had not been thoroughly investigated. They also highlighted Matthew's lack of a prior violent history, arguing that it was out of character for him to commit such a heinous act. After weeks of testimony and deliberation, the jury found Eric Matthews guilty of first-degree murder. He was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. The verdict brought a sense of closure to Paul's family and friends, though the pain

of his loss would linger for years to come. Paul Logan's murder serves as a sobering reminder of how easily trust can be betrayed, and how the holiday season, a time of joy for many many can also be marred by tragedy. In the wake of his death, Paul's friends and colleagues established a charitable foundation in his name, dedicated to providing housing assistance to those in need, a fitting tribute to a man who devoted his life to helping others. The murder of Paul Logan is a stark example of how personal and financial pressures can spiral out of control, leading to devastating consequences.

It's a story that underscores the importance of vigilance, even among those we consider friends and colleagues, and the enduring impact of violence on a community. And though justice was served, the memory of Paul Logan continues to inspire acts of kindness and generosity in Nashville and beyond. His legacy reminds us that, even in the darkest of times, the spirit of compassion and giving can prevail. On a crisp December morning in 1996, the peaceful calm of Alexandria, Virginia was shattered by a chilling discovery. In a small, serene cemetery nestled between the headstones lay the lifeless body of an

unidentified woman. She appeared to have passed peacefully, yet the circumstances surrounding her death were anything but ordinary. Beside her, an artificial Christmas tree stood as a silent sentinel, a poignant symbol of the holiday season. To this day she is remembered as the Christmas Tree Lady. It was December 18th of 1996 when a groundskeeper at the Pleasant Valley Memorial Park in Alexandria came upon the body. She was reclining on a plastic sheet, her head resting on a clear bag filled with shredded

green and white Christmas tinsel. Her attire was unremarkable. A blue trench coat, a sweater and slacks, all neatly arranged. Beside her lay an assortment of peculiar items. A portable cassette player with two tapes, a few empty juice bottles and a small artificial Christmas tree adorned with golden ribbons. Yet the most striking detail was the absence of any outward signs of violence. Authorities would later conclude that the circumstances of her death were a mystery,

but that she had been killed using a combination of alcohol and antihistamines. However, this conclusion did little to explain the killer's motivations or the identity of their victim. The Christmas tree lady was estimated to be between 50 and 70 years of age. She had graying, auburn hair and wore glasses. Her clothing, while unassuming, was clean and suggested a middle-class background. She carried no identification and her fingerprints were not in any database, leaving investigators with few clues as to who she was.

A note was found among her belongings, cryptic in its content but revealing her intent. It read, Deceased. Prefer no autopsy. Please order cremation with funds provided. Thank you. Jane Doe. Attached to the note was a fifty dollar bill, presumably intended to cover the costs of her cremation. The bizarre request for anonymity, even in death, was chilling, leaving investigators

and the public alike to wonder who murdered her and why. The lack of identification and the meticulously planned nature of her death fueled speculation. Why had her killer chosen this particular cemetery? Why had they brought an artificial Christmas tree? And was there a deeper significance to the holiday season in her decision? Some theorize that the victim was a widow, or someone who had recently suffered a personal tragedy. Some speculated that the cemetery itself might hold a connection to a loved one she'd lost,

yet searches of the burial records revealed no obvious links. Others suggested that she might have been homeless or estranged from her family, yet her clean and well-maintained appearance seemed to contradict this theory. The presence of the artificial Christmas tree is perhaps the most mysterious aspect of the case. It seemed deliberately placed, standing as a stark reminder of the season of joy and togetherness. Some have speculated that the tree was a symbolic gesture, representing a longing for connection during a time of year when loneliness can be particularly acute.

Others believe it was an attempt to mock the very nature of the holiday season. Authorities pursued every lead they could find, though there were precious few. Local and national databases yielded no matches for her fingerprints, her dental records provided no answers. Investigators released sketches and details of the case to the public, hoping someone might recognize her, but no one came forward. The cassette tapes found at the scene contained recordings of classical and religious music, further deepening

the sense of mystery. Nearly three decades later, the identity of the Christmas Tree Lady remains unknown. Her story has become a poignant reminder of the hidden struggles many face, particularly during the holidays, when the lonely and vulnerable can be isolated and targeted during the coldest and darkest times of the year. True crime enthusiasts and amateur sleuths have kept their memory alive, discussing her case in forums and podcasts. Advances in forensic technology such as genetic genealogy offer hope that one day her identity

might be uncovered. Until then, the Christmas tree lady stands as a haunting symbol of an unsolved mystery, her story etched into the annals of true crime lore. The years since her death, the Christmas Tree Lady has touched the hearts of many who have learned of her story. As investigators and the public continue to ponder her identity and the meaning behind her final acts, her legacy endures, wrapped in the enduring mystery of a story untold. It was the day before Christmas and the store was chaotic with last minute shoppers. Parents rushed through the aisles, pushing carts piled high with wrapping paper, decorations

and toys, and the shelves were almost bare with only a few items left that looked like decent gifts, and people seemed frantic, grabbing whatever they could find. I was in the toy section trying to find something for my niece, and it was very slim pickings. Then I noticed a toy on the shelf that seemed to be the hot item. It was brightly colored and packaged to grab attention, and there was only a couple left, and I saw two parents reach for the same one at the exact same time. One was a man and the other was a woman, and they both grabbed it and wouldn't let go. They started arguing right away.

The voices were sharp and loud, cutting through the noise of the store. Other shoppers began to notice and stop to watch. Neither of them would back down. The man pulled on the toy, but the woman held on tightly, and they were glaring at each other and their faces were just red with frustration and it was clear that neither was going to give up. The tension grew as they continued to fight over this toy. The man shoved the woman and she stumbled, but didn't seem to fall, and she came right

back at him, reaching for the toy again. And that's when it escalated. The man leaned in and bit her arm. Hard. She screamed, and I saw blood starting to rush down her arm from where his teeth had broken the skin. People nearby gasped and backed away. Some tried to step in but the man was still holding onto the toy, his grip

seemingly unrelenting, and the woman clutched her arm, wincing in pain, but she didn't let go of the toy either. Store employees came running, and somewhere in the background I could hear the faint sound of sirens getting closer, and eventually the man dropped the toy onto the floor. He looked around, his chest was just heaving as he tried to catch his breath, and then he turned and started walking away like nothing had happened at all. The woman was still holding her arm, and she bent down and picked up the toy, and she seemed to clung to it like it was the most important thing in the world. The police arrived shortly after, and they spoke to both of those people and the man

was taken away. The woman was given first aid for the bite and she looked shaken and pale but refused to let go of that toy. The crowd that gathered slowly dispersed and the store fell quiet again. People whispered as they walked away, avoiding that section of the store, and I left the store without buying anything. My hands were empty but my mind was full of many questions. How could something like that, like a toy, lead to such violence?

And as I walked in my car I kept thinking about the child who would receive that toy. Would they ever even really know what their mom went through to get it? I hope they wouldn't, when they couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that the whole scene had left behind. 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 9pm EST. Thanks so much friends, and I'll see you in the next episode.