The Lets Read Podcast - 304: I FOUND SOMETHING HORRIBLE ON THE DARK WEB | Rain Ambience / 13 TERRIFYING True Scary Stories | EP 290

Episode Date: July 29, 2025

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

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Please play responsibly. If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. But MGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Hi, I'm Maria Postonyak. I cover consumer affairs at the Globe and Mail. My job is to shine a light on your everyday frustrations and your biggest financial grievances. From funeral fraud and overpriced concert tickets to investing scams and junk fees. I dig into the policies and market forces that shape all of it.

The goal is to help Canadians like you stay a step ahead, spend smarter, and know where to turn when the odds feel stacked against you. If that's journalism you value, head to globe and mail.com slash subscribe. We're going to be able to be. I first became interested in the dark web during my second year of university. I was taking a module on cybersecurity when the subject came up during a seminar and it seemed like this mysterious, almost mythical corner of the internet that few people truly understood. I read articles and watch videos about it. Some sensationalize, others more technical, and I was fascinated by the idea of this vast hidden network lying just beneath the

surface. I won't lie. I was curious regarding the darker side of things, but it wasn't where my interests were rooted. I wanted to understand the technology, the architecture, as well as what purpose it might have in the online landscape of tomorrow. Accessing it turned out to be easier than I'd imagined. I downloaded the Tor browser, which is designed to anonymize your online activity by routing traffic through a series of volunteer-operated servers. And then to be extra cautious, I used a VPN for another layer of security. Navigating the dark web wasn't like using Google, where everything is indexed and easy to find. Instead, you have to use directories like the hidden wiki to locate onion sites. And to learn how to do that, I joined forums to

learn the ropes from people who had been exploring the dark web for years, and once I was ready, I began exploring. At first, my discoveries were at best, surprisingly harmless and sometimes wholesome, and at worst, only mildly unsettling. I found a lot of resources dedicated to online privacy, such as guides on using encrypted messaging apps or secure email platforms, and advice on avoiding surveillance. These weren't tools for criminals either, a big portion of the market seemed to be people like journalists and activists and countries with oppressive governments, which was a very cool aspect that hadn't even occurred to me until that point. But then a lot of users seemed to just be regular people who appeared to greatly

value their digital privacy. But while some people simply trying to get ahead in a changing world of online activity, others exhibited decidedly unhealthy tendencies. For example, there was a small contingent of users who believe that they were the victims of what's called gangstocking. Gangstocking refers to the belief that a person is being systematically harassed by a coordinated group. They often describe constant surveillance, sabotage, social isolation, and public intimidation orchestrated by strangers, acquaintances, or even authorities like the federal government. It's true that a handful of isolated cases of organized harassment have been recorded, But what's important to keep in mind is that most reports of gang-stalking lack any kind of evidence whatsoever

and can often be caused by things like paranoia, anxiety, and other serious psychiatric conditions. The level of paranoia sufferer's experience causes them to misinterpret ordinary events as deliberate threats, which can sometimes have devastating results for their friends and families. And some of what I saw unfolding on the gang-stalking forum was as disheartening as it was. disturbing. People's entire lives had fallen to pieces, but instead of accepting help from family or friends, they turned inward, formed secretive online communities, and actively encouraged each other's delusions, and sometimes it appeared to have deadly consequences. For me, exploring the dark web started as an academic curiosity, but quickly became something deeper. It made me think

more critically about privacy, surveillance, and how technology shapes our freedoms. The dark web didn't seem inherently good or bad. It was just a tool, and what seemed to matter most was the intent of those who used it. But as I spent more time exploring, I inevitably began to come across things that hinted at its darker side. It was gradual, almost like peeling back layers of something you're not entirely sure you want to see. There were mentions of marketplaces where illegal goods were traded, forums where people discussed activities that were clearly unethical or overtly criminal. And these weren't things that I actively sought out.

They were just there, scattered amidst the harmless content. But it was the rumors of so-called red rooms that marked my first tentative steps into the deep web's darkest recesses. These were said to be live-streamed events where unspeakable acts were performed on camera for an audience willing to pay in cryptocurrency. Some claimed that they were the stuff of urban legend, exaggerated or entirely fabricated to add to the dark web's infamy. Others spoke about them with eerie detail, describing how you'd need to find hidden links and pay a steep price for access. Even though I hadn't yet seen anything that confirmed their existence, the very idea was chilling. But what really struck me about the darker corners of the deep web were how casually some people discussed such.

topics. In certain forums, people discussed things that were morally repugnant as if they were just innocent curiosities. It felt like stepping into a world where societal norms had been stripped away and anonymity had created a space where anything, no matter how horrifying, could flourish. Despite the darkness, I kept reminding myself why I was there in the first place, to understand, not to engage. I was careful to avoid clicking on anything suspicious or, venturing too far in the places I didn't belong. Still, it was impossible not to feel the weight of what the dark web could be. For every encrypted email service or activist forum, there seemed to be an equally sinister counterpart lurking in the shadows. The rumors of so-called red rooms

lingered in the back of my mind as I continued exploring. They were whispered about in forums and chat rooms, yet always elusive and always unconfirmed. And at first, I too dismissed them as nothing but digital urban legends, nothing but the product of overactive imaginations. But the more I read, the more I started to realize, they weren't entirely the stuff of myth. It felt like an unsettling puzzle, one I wasn't sure I wanted to solve, but I couldn't resist trying to uncover the truth. My search began with forums where users claimed to have insider knowledge. The posts were cryptic, filled with vague hints and coded language. Some people described red rooms as paid-of-view live-streamed services where horrific acts were performed on camera,

often at the request of an audience. Others dismiss the idea as impossible, pointing out the technical difficulties of streaming live video anonymously through Tor. However, there were enough detailed accounts to keep me intrigued, enough to make me wonder of some twisted corner of the internet had found a way to make it real. I followed the leads cautiously, moving through layers of forums, chat rooms, and directories. But the deeper I went, the more the atmosphere seemed to change. Places felt heavier, darker even, and I came across sites with names that felt like warnings. Their plain black and white pages filled with ominous links. Some required passwords or cryptocurrency to proceed, and I hesitated. I didn't want to cross a line that I couldn't

uncross, but part of me was driven by a need to know. Were these simply dead ends, or were they actually the real McCoy. And the most unnerving moments came when I found threads where people claimed to have attended those supposed events. They spoke about encrypted invitations, exorbitant Bitcoin payments, and fleeting access to streams hosted on obscure servers. It was all so surreal, yet the way they described it felt disturbingly plausible. I never found anything definitive, no actual links, no concrete evidence, but the process alone was chilling. The deeper I dug, the more I realized that even the search itself carried risks, not just of stumbling upon something horrific, but of crossing a boundary that I wasn't willing to cross. Whether or not

red rooms actually exist almost seemed irrelevant toward the end, because the pursuit alone had revealed an incredibly unsettling truth about what people are capable of imagining. I logged off, shaken by the experience, but also strangely relieved that I hadn't found what I was looking for. The rumors remain just that. Rumors. But the darkness I glimpsed along the way felt all too real. And in the end, it was that feeling of being so close to finding something that dragged me back down that rabbit hall. I still remember the moment I found it. It was the culmination of weeks of following cryptic threads, chasing rumors, and piecing together fragments of a puzzle that I wasn't even sure I wanted to solve. It came unexpectedly. After after after after,

hours of trawling through hidden forums and dead links. A new thread had appeared in one of the darker corners of a forum posted by someone who claimed to have access to a real red room. And the post was sparse, just a brief description, a heavily encrypted link, and a demand for payment in Bitcoin. I hesitated. Every instinct screamed at me to stop, to close the browser and walk away, but I couldn't. The curiosity that had driven me this far refused to let me.

me quit. I transferred the required Bitcoin, an amount that made my chest tighten as I watched it leave my wallet and follow the instructions. The link took me to a blank page with a countdown timer. It felt surreal, like stepping into the setup of some macabre horror film. I waited, my heart rate beginning to quicken as I questioned every decision which led me to that moment. When the countdown hit zero, the screen flickered, and a grainy video feed appeared. The room was very stark and clinical, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that cast sharp shadows on the walls. A man in a lab coat stood in the center, surrounded by equipment that looked cobbled together,

medical monitors, steel tables, and tools whose purposes I didn't want to imagine. The camera paned slowly, revealing a figure, strapped one of the tables. They were conscious, but their face was contorted with fear and their muffled cries were audible, even through their gag and the poor audio quality. The chat panel beside the video feed erupted with activity. Anonymous viewers-type messages, some urging the host to proceed, others asking for specific acts or experiments. It was horrifying, not just because of what I was seeing,

but because of the casualness of the audience. They treated it like a spectacle, something to be ordered and consumed, as if the person on the table wasn't even a human being to begin, with. I don't know if they believed it was fake or something and that's why they were able to talk that way, but to me, it looked very real. The experiments began, and I could barely stomach it. The host used injections, electrical currents, and other devices that seemed designed to test pain thresholds or biological responses. The victim writhed and screamed, their agony evident

through the screen, and the audience cheered, their request growing more depraved with every passing moment. It was unlike anything I'd ever imagined, pure, unfiltered cruelty masquerading as scientific inquiry. I don't know how long I watched before I forced myself to close the browser and slam closed my laptop. I sat there in silence, feeling sick. My hands trembled and I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for even having gone that far. The reality of what I'd seen was far worse than any rumor or legend. It wasn't just a myth. This was real, and it was happening somewhere, hidden in the depths of the shadowy network. That night I deleted everything, the Tor browser, my Bitcoin wallet, the logs I kept of my search. I wanted no trace of what I'd done, no connection to the

sickening, skin-crawling world that I had taken a glimpse into. But those images stayed with me. They're things I'll never fully forget, as long as I live, and I suppose that's something that I have to deal with, alone. One morning, a few months ago during the summer, I decided to check out the yard sale down the street. Yard sales have always really interested me because you never know what kinds of treasures you might stumble across. And that morning, there was a nice crowd already picking through the tables as I walked up. Then I spotted an old lawn chair that looked just like the one my grandma used to have.

So I made my way over to take a closer look. As I was giving the chair that closer look, I heard raised voices not too far away. It was coming from a lady who was standing by a table full of dishes and kitchen gadgets. She wasn't yelling or anything, but you could tell that there was some kind of disagreement happening. The lady was arguing with an older man, who looked to be in his late 60s, over a set of china plates that were all nicely arranged in a cardboard box, probably hoping to sell as a set. The woman was pointing at the plates and saying something I couldn't quite make out. Neither of them were hosting the sale either.

Both were people from the neighborhood who'd come looking for a deal. I didn't think much of it at first, because as surprising as it sounds, some people can get pretty heated at yard sales. It's like they forget that they're just trying to get rid of junk that they don't need anymore, and some people take it very personally if you imply that something isn't as valuable as they think it is. And then occasionally, you get two potential buyers arguing over an item they both want, which appeared to be what was happening here. At first, it was just the lady getting very confrontational.

But then the older man started raising his voice, too, and the whole scene got more intense. He was pointing back at her, and they were exchanging words I couldn't really understand because they were both talking over each other about a mile a minute. I was still looking at that chair at first, not looking, but listening in. but then by the time they started actually yelling at each other my curiosity got the better of me and i couldn't help but glance over at the argument other people were turning to look too one guy even set down the book that he was flipping through to see what was going on then the next thing the host of the yard sale is walking over saying something like hey hey hey hey hey take it easy

but then before the guy can even get over there the lady grabs one of the plates and raises it up above her head. I thought for sure that she was about to smash that plate or something, like a sort of, if I can't have it, no one can kind of deal. But the second she did, the older man lunges toward her, and because he's a little taller than her, grabs the plate with ease, but then starts trying to wrestle it out of her grip. The lady has one hand on the plate, another on her purse, but then the older guy puts two hands on the plate and then sort of turns his body as he's pulling it out of her hands. He succeeds in pulling it out of her grip, but as he does, he loses his balance and falls.

He hit the ground, and we heard the plate smash, and then the guy let out this very long and painful grunt, and just from the way it sounded, I knew that it was probably bad. And everyone seems stunned. They all heard the same thing I did, and they must have known that something was bad, too. But there was just this moment where no one moved and no one said anything. almost like we were hoping that things wouldn't be as bad as they looked. The woman froze, staring down at the man who lay on his front, not moving, and seconds later we saw this blood start to ooze from underneath him,

and the woman started screaming. People rushed to the older guy's aide, telling him not to move and yelling for someone to call 911. But the lady that had been in the scuffle with him just stood there, completely in shock, saying, oh my God, oh my God, over and over. The folks that rushed over to help rolled the guy over so they could try and stop the bleeding, but that's when everyone saw the big shard of porcelain sticking out of the guy's stomach. The lady who had been in the scuffle started to cry as we did everything we could to stop the bleeding, and the man just sort of laid there, breathing heavily, his eyes wide open.

Thankfully, the paramedics arrived fast, closely followed by the cops, then after the ambulance took the older guy off, the cops started taking statements. from us. I didn't have much to say. I was just there to buy a lawn chair and not get involved in a yard sale showdown that ended up in someone dying. And the lady involved in the scuffle just cried and cried. And I don't think it was entirely her fault that the guy had fallen. Like it was all just a horrible accident, I suppose. But at the time, she clearly blamed herself for what had happened, and some people in the crowd did too. I think the cops then drove her home to talk to her more at her house. And later, as I walked back home, I couldn't shake the image of that man lying

on the ground. It was the way that he was staring up the sky, very wide-eyed and scared, more scared than I'd ever seen anyone in my whole life, and I can't imagine what must have been going through his head. And neither can I imagine what was going through the lady's head when she found out that the guy had actually passed. I found out from my neighbor the next day, and when I told him I was actually there, he asked me what had happened. And I told him that they were, both being just childish, fighting over a piece of porcelain, and my neighbor then asked if the lady pushed the guy, and I said, no, that he fell because he was sort of wrenching the plate away from the lady so hard that he spun around when it left her hands. I said that it seemed like the

lady started it, but then again, I only heard her voice first, you know. The older man could have easily said something under his breath, and that's what started the whole thing. The whole thing felt like equal blame on each side but in the end it was a life lost and a life ruined really neither of them deserved that i guess once they got the full story the older guy's family didn't press any charges but the lady still left town not long after i'm pretty sure even though it was all but publicly declared that she wasn't to blame people still said that she killed that guy it was like they wanted it to be her fault just so they had someone to blame and they didn't exactly go driving her out of town afterwards, but I guess all their stares and hushed words got too much for her,

and she eventually moved on of her own accord. To me, it's just crazy how something as simple as an argument in a yard sale can end up in such tragedy. One second, it's a nice day, people were out taking walks, and then the next, a dude's dead. I'd always been curious about the so-called dark web. I'd heard a bunch of stories about its deeper, darker corners, places no one should go, filled with things that no one should see. It might sound creepy, but it got me pretty curious.

but I could never be prepared for what I found when I stumbled across the cannibal cafe. It started innocently enough. Late night boredom, a rabbit hole of clicks, and then suddenly I was there. The site was crude. Its design basic and outdated, but its purpose was clear. It was a gathering place for people with tastes that went beyond acceptable norms. It claimed to be fictional, but the post felt too rich. real, too detailed. I thought it was just another forum for sick fantasies. And then I saw

the classifieds. People weren't just talking about cannibalism. They were either offering themselves up or asking for someone else to become meat. The language was careful, vague enough to avoid outright confession, but the user's intentions were unmistakable. It wasn't just some dumb sight for sick role players. It was real. I should have clicked away, close my laptop, and just gone to bed, but instead, I stayed. Part of me thought it was all some elaborate joke, some twisted forum for entertainment, and I told myself that I was just observing and that I wasn't a part of it, just a tourist passing through. And then I found it.

It was a journal entry written by someone who claimed to have actually cannibalized another person. He didn't use his real name, none of the other. did, but the way he described everything, the way he wrote, it made it sound like the God's honest truth. He talked about meeting a man online, someone who was tired of living and then they agreed to meet. He would end him, butcher him, and eat him, and the man actually wanted it. And I felt sick reading it, but I couldn't stop. He described the meeting in a way that made it sound almost normal, like two friends getting together. They had dinner first, an actual meal, as if to ease into what was coming.

And then the man who wrote the journal led the other man to a room he had prepared for the occasion. He claimed to have covered everything in plastic, set up tools, knives, and hooks. It sounded clean, clinical even, and it absolutely horrified me. The man who was tired of living, who was called the volunteer, was told to strip down and lay on the table. He was calm. He brought a letter, a sort of contract explaining his consent, and the writer said that he asked one last time if he was sure, and he claimed the volunteer smiled and nodded, and then it began. The description of

what followed made my stomach churn. He wrote about the knife, the blood, the way the man's body reacted. He wrote about the sounds, the smell, and he was careful and precise. He didn't rush. He said it was important to honor the volunteer's wishes, to make it meaningful. There was no anger, no rage, just a kind of reverence. He described the meat, the way it looked, the texture. He wrote about cooking it, seasoning it, and then finally, eating it. I should have stopped reading, but I couldn't. It was like watching a slow-motion car crash or something. Horrifying, but impossible not to watch. The way he wrote made it feel real, more real than anything I'd ever read before, but it wasn't just the details. It was the emotion the guy put into his writing that

really sent chills through me. He wasn't writing to brag or shock anyone. He was confessing, unburdening himself almost. There was a sadness in his words, too, a weight to the them, as if what he'd done had changed him in ways he didn't fully understand yet. When I finally closed my laptop, it was early morning and the sun was creeping through the blinds. I felt nauseous and hollow, like something had been done that couldn't be undone. And I tried telling myself it wasn't real, that it was just some story, but I couldn't forget the way it was written. The details, the emotion. It stayed with me, gnawing at my thoughts as I shower, toweling off, and then drifted off to sleep after climbing into bed.

For the next few days, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I tried to distract myself, but nothing worked. The story kept replaying in my head over and over again, and I started dreaming about it, nightmares where I was the volunteer lying on the table, waiting for the knife, and I'd wake up sweating with my heart racing and my mouth parched and dry. I told myself I wouldn't go back to that site, but the pool was too strong. I needed to know more. I needed to understand, and so I did return. The journal entry was still there, along with the others, more stories, more confessions. Some were less detailed and others more so. Some sounded fake, exaggerated, but others had that chilling ring of truth to them, just like the first one I'd read.

I started reading them all, one by one, each more horrifying than the last, and I didn't eat meat for almost two weeks around that time. I couldn't look at it without imagining the descriptions from the stories, but at the same time, I couldn't keep away. I became obsessed, spending hours on the site, diving deeper into its archives, noticing patterns and connections between different posts. Some of the users seemed to know each other, referencing past events or sharing tips. It was a full-on cannibalistic community hidden just below the surface of the regular internet. One night, I found a new post. It was from the same user who had written the journal entry that started it all. He was back, sharing another story, only this time it was different.

He wrote about the aftermath, about how he couldn't stop thinking about it. He said he craved that feeling of God-like power again. He tried to live a normal life, but it was impossible. The taste of the meat, the act itself, he felt like they'd changed him. He wrote about finding another volunteer, someone else who was tired of living. He described the process again, but this time it felt darker, more desperate. He wasn't honoring anyone's wishes anymore. He was feeding his addiction.

The reverence was gone, replaced by depravity, and he wrote about the the guilt, the shame, but also the satisfaction, the way it filled the void inside him and the peace that brought him, if only for a moment. During those two or three days where I was glued to Cannibal Cafe, I stopped leaving my apartment. I avoided friends, family, and anyone who might notice the change in me, and my world shranked the glow of my laptop screen and the endless stream of stories and posts. The dreams got worse. They weren't nightmares at anymore. They were vivid, detailed, and I wasn't a volunteer anymore. I was the one holding the knife. It took a long talk with a close friend to realize that my obsession with Cannibal

Cafe was the symptom of some lingering depression I've been wrestling with following the death of my father. That might sound very random to some people, but I guess I wasn't fully in touch with my own emotions regarding his passing. Reading about that clinical process of death and dismemberment forced me to confront them in ways I wasn't entirely aware of at the time. And then after talking to my friend about it, it's like it unlock this new perspective. I stopped visiting the Cannibal Cafe, and for a long time it was out of my mind until I heard about the owner getting arrested in Germany for actually killing and eating somebody, just like the person had described in the post.

I managed to half convince myself that, in reality, the site was nothing but an elaborate fantasy run by some very disturbed individuals. But hearing about that guy, Armin Mivas arrested, shattered that delusion and had made me realize that the world really is much darker than I was led to believe. A few years back, I decided to hold a yard sale. My garage was overflowing with junk, old furniture, boxes of books, clothes that didn't fit anymore, so I just figured it was time to clear out some space and maybe make a little money while I was at it.

And by 10 a.m. on Sunday morning, my driveway was packed with tape. covered in stuff that I thought that I might sell. Neighbors came and went, poking around, asking prices. Some haggled, some just handed over crumpled bills. But for the most part, they smiled politely and made a little small talk and then moved on. And by mid-morning, strangers were starting to notice the sale as they were walking or driving by. And then the more people gathered, the more people noticed the sale. So by maybe 11 to 11.30, I was getting quite a lot of foot traffic.

making quite a few sails. And in one point, I noticed the man lingering by a table of tools, picking up a wrench and then a hammer, and turning them over in his hands like he was deciding one or another. He was wearing a faded gray t-shirt, jeans, and a Dodgers cap. Nothing very unusual about him, but something about the way his eyes darted around that made me very uneasy. On the assumption that he was looking around for the person running the sale, I walked over and introduced myself. The guy then said he was interested in the tools and then asked if I had any more, but his voice was sort of flat, like he was reading from a script, but very badly.

I pointed to a box of odds and ends near the back of the driveway, and he nodded and then walked over slowly. By noon it was just a trickle of people wandering in and out. I was very tired and ready to pack it in, and that's when I noticed the man in the Dodgers cap again, meaning he'd been hanging around for almost an hour without buying anything. He was hanging around the edge of the driveway, pacing past the tables like he hadn't already seen everything three times over, but then he wasn't looking at the stuff anymore. He seemed like he was looking at me. I tried to ignore him, announced that I was about to pack up and then focused on the last few

shoppers. A woman asked about a lamp, a teenager bought a stack of DVDs, but the whole time I could kept an eye on the man in the Dodgers cap, all while trying my best to pretend that I wasn't. When the dry boy was finally empty, except for him, I started packing up. I told him the sale was over, then I needed to get everything back inside. He didn't leave. He just stood there, watching me, his hands shoved into his pockets. I started to get a little nervous, but told myself that he was obviously harmless, just a little odd, and that I was anxious. I loaded a couple of boxes in the garage.

keeping one eye on him but when I turned back he had moved closer he was standing in the middle of the driveway by that point looking down at one of the tables and he said something about the tools again but his tone made it sound like he wasn't really asking I told him that they weren't for sale anymore that it was done for the day he nodded but he didn't leave instead he reached down and picked up a hammer turning it over in his hands again and in that moment my throat went dry. I told him to put it down, to leave, but he just stared at me, like he was thinking, making up his mind. I don't know what set him off, though. Maybe it was the way that I said it, or maybe he had been planning this all along. One second, he was standing there,

and the next, he was moving towards me, and fast. I backed up, my feet stumbling over the edge of the driveway. He raised the hammer, and I turned to run. I barely made it to the garage before he grabbed me, his fingers digging into my arm. I twisted away, yanking free, but then tripped over a box, I think it was, of books. It was right behind me, looming over me as I scrambled backward, searching for anything that I could grab. My hand closed around something solid and heavy, a wrench from the box that he had looked through earlier. I swung it without thinking, the metal connecting with a very sickening thing. thud, and he stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, his face twisted in pain and rage.

I didn't wait to see what he would do next. I scrambled to my feet and ran, vaulting through the side door into the house. I slammed it shut behind me, locked it, and then pressed my back against the door listening for any sound outside. It was quiet for a moment, and then I heard the crunch of footsteps and the gravel moving away. I crept to the window, peeking out through the blinds. It was gone. The driveway was empty. The yard sale tables scattered with what was left of my things. I called the police, my voice shaking as I explained what had happened, and to my relief,

they arrived quicker than I thought they would. I showed them where it had happened, pointed to the hammer that he had dropped in the wrench still lying on the garage floor. They took my statement, asking questions I could barely answer, and they never found them. The man who had turned a quiet yard sale into a nightmare disappeared as quickly as he had come. In weeks passed and I kept expecting him to show up again to finish what he had started. And every time I heard a car pull into the driveway or a knock the door, my heart leapt in my throat.

I stopped holding yard sales and I stopped leaving the garage door open even for a second. I watched for strangers more closely, my mind replaying the way his eyes had lingered on me. the way his hand had tightened around that hammer, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he was still out there and that one day he might return. The police told me to stay vigilant, to report anything suspicious, but there was nothing to report, just an empty driveway in the memory of his shadow stretching across the pavement. The stuff I hadn't sold that day stayed in the garage, just gathering dust, I guess, and I couldn't bring myself to touch it, to move it, or to go near the spot where it had happened.

Now, it might sound pathetic, but some nights I dream about him. I see him standing at the edge of the driveway, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on me. And then I wake up, and I wake up, drenched and sweat. The yard sale was supposed to be a simple way to clear out the clutter, to make some extra cash, and instead, it left me with a story to send to you that I'll never forget, a scar that's invisible but is always there. I don't know if they'll ever catch him, or if he's still out there looking for his next target. All I know is that I'll never feel safe, truly safe, in my own home again. The dark web is a grim place, a pit where humanity's worst instincts thrive, and it's where I work.

I'm what's known as a white hat. A kind of good guy hacker paid to tear it down vile markets, mapped the trails that lead to the monsters hiding in the shadows, and shine a sort of light into that darkness. Most days I sit in front of my screens, the glow of my monitors, the only light in my small cluttered apartment, as my fingers fly over the keyboard, piercing layers of encrypted filth and exposing secrets no one else dares to look for. It's my job and it's not for the faint of heart, but I'm goddamn good at it. I've seen horrors beyond imagination, things no one should ever witness. But the case that haunts me started on a day like any other. A routine sweep led to a marketplace buried deep in the web's underbelly. It advertised human lives as commodities, young and

old with glossy images and cold descriptions. I'd seen it before, but this one had a different aura, polished, professional, and insidiously quiet. A digital fortress, almost daring anyone to try to break in. I remember digging into its code and unraveling the layers of security, sort of like peeling an onion. It was very slow and grueling and frustrating work, and the site had a grotesque elegance to it, its defenses crafted by someone who knew what they were doing, but no system is impenetrable, and by the end of the third day, I was in. The database was rather vast, with entries detailing victims, names, ages, photos, and chillingly precise description. descriptions of their usefulness.

Each profile was a silent scream, a plea buried in ones and zeros, and I started extracting the data, piecing together patterns and names and connections, and as always I logged everything meticulously, building a dossier that might help the authorities when I was done dismantling the site. Then I found her, a girl from the Philippines, and she couldn't have been more than 12. Her photo showed a child with wide, frightened eyes and a forced smile. Her profile was detailed in a way that made my stomach churned. And something about her entry stood out, though.

An odd note in the metadata, a small breadcrumbs someone had left behind. It was a payment log, and it didn't lead to a buyer. It led back to her family. I ran her name through every database I had access to, cross-referencing missing persons reports, social media posts, and news articles. and the trail was faint, but it was there. She disappeared months ago, her last known sighting in a small village. The local news barely mentioned it, and her parents never reported her missing.

Instead, the lives had taken a very curious turn. I found pictures of them on Facebook, standing in front of a newly built house, post bragging about a blessing that had come their way. Expensive clothes, lavish parties, smiles plastered across, their faces, it just didn't add up. Where does a poor family suddenly get that kind of money? The pieces clicked together, a grotesque puzzle I wish that I hadn't solved. They sold her. Their own flesh and blood handed over to monsters for a better life. I stared at the screen, bile rising up in my throat ready to vomit, and it wasn't just the marketplace.

It was the betrayal, the abandonment. the cold calculations that turned a child into currency. I've always kept my work professional, very detached, but this time I couldn't stop thinking about her. She wasn't just a name and a database anymore. She was a girl who had been discarded like trash, her life ripped apart by the people who were supposed to love her most. I dug deeper into her family.

Bank records, private messages, anything I could find. Every transaction told a story in the trail was very damning. The deposit that coincided with her disappearance, the gradual splurge on luxuries, they weren't just complicit. They were thriving off her suffering. The more I uncovered, the more I felt anger creeping in. My work had always been about dismantling systems, not judging individuals, but this felt very personal.

Her image haunted me, that forced smile and the terror in her eyes. I just couldn't shake it no matter how hard I tried. I've been compiling evidence for weeks, building a case that would hold up under scrutiny, and the authorities would take it from there, and that's how it always worked. But with each passing day, the thought of her family living in comfort while she suffered, gnawed at me, they'd bought their happiness with her life. It was just monstrous. One night, as I sifted through the last of the data, I made a decision.

I wouldn't just hand over the evidence and walk away. I would make them feel the weight of what they'd done. They couldn't be allowed to forget her, to erase her like she was nothing. I crafted an email, anonymous and untraceable attaching photos of their daughter from the marketplace, blurred enough to protect her dignity, but unmistakable. I sent it to them with no words, just images. I wanted them to see her, to remember what they'd done. I'll never know if they opened it, but I imagined the guilt festering inside them

like a rot. It wasn't justice, but it was something. The marketplace was gone within days, wiped clean from the dark web. My work there was done, and the authorities had the evidence they needed to start tracking that network, but her face has stayed with me, a ghost that I couldn't exercise. I like to think that she's still alive somewhere, that the system I helped dismantle gave her a chance at freedom, but I know better. The dark web doesn't just like go of its victims easily. Still, I keep working, tearing down one monster at a time, because if I don't, who will? It was a typical Saturday morning, filled with the usual errands and a long list of things to do.

But the yard sale today's sign caught my eyes as it drove past, and before I knew it, I found myself pulling over. It was set up in the front yard of a small, weathered house. Nothing really special, just the typical kind of yard sale that you see around here. But as I walked up, I noticed an old unlabeled cardboard box sitting on the ground near the back of the table. It was dusty and looked like it hadn't been moved in years, and I crouched down and picked it up, feeling the weight of it in my hands. It wasn't very heavy, but it was strangely solid, like there was a lot of stuff inside it. The lid was taped down, and the edges were frayed. I asked what was inside, and the middle-aged man running the sail told me,

Just a box of old stuff, feel free to take a look. I lifted the lid, carefully peeling away the tape, and then peered inside. the contents were a strange mix of items there were a few old hair bands a couple of rusted keys a small hairbrush and some photographs but the one thing that stood out were all the newspaper clippings they were all yellowed with age and crinkled along the edges and i picked one up and read the headline and when i did i sort of felt a chill run down my spine missing person jane doe it said there were several clippings all about the same person, a woman whose body had been found decades ago in a nearby town. I flipped through the articles, reading the details. Her body had been found in the early 90s, and partly because she was never identified, her murder went unsolved. The articles described Jane Doe as a young brunette, last seen visiting a local diner.

But as I sifted through the clippings, I discovered more disturbing details. There were photographs tucked in among them, grainy, black and white images of a woman who matched Jane Does, walking alone in a parking lot, entering a store, or sitting on a bench. There were also personal items in the box, the hairbrush that I mentioned, a few pieces of jewelry and some clothing. They were old, worn, and had a very musty smell. The cellar was still standing behind the table, not really looking at me,

and wasn't really saying a word. I glanced up at him, wondering if he knew anything about this Jane Doe. But he just stood there, silent and very indifferent. It was as if though he was waiting for me to leave so he could go back inside the house. I asked if he knew who the woman was, and he looked at it and just sort of shrugged. He said he found the box in his attic, and never opened it and had no idea what was inside. But his answer didn't really sit right with me. How could he not care about what was inside that box?

It wasn't just old stuff. It was part of someone's life, and it was somehow connected to some terrible, unsolved murder. I wanted to press him for more information, but there was something about him that told me he wasn't interested in talking, and so I began reading the newspaper clipping more carefully. There were mentions of a man, Jane's boyfriend at the time that she went missing. He was a local guy, well-known in town, but no one had seen him. him since the day that he disappeared. His name was mentioned in the articles, but there were no photos of him. As I pieced to get to the story, I began to wonder if the cellar knew more than

he was letting on. Maybe he was connected to the case somehow. Maybe he was hiding something. Could he have been involved in this Jane's disappearance, or was he telling the truth about just finding it in his home? I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story than I was seen. I had to know more, but I didn't know where to start. The newspaper clippings were a dead end. They were decades old, and the people mentioned in them were long gone, so I decided to take the box with me. I paid that seller a few dollars for it and walked back to my car and then drove back home. When I got home, I laid all the clippings on my kitchen table and this sort of jumbled mess of information, and I tried to make sense of it all, but it was sort of like piecing together a puzzle

with missing pieces, and the whole situation was very unsettling, and every clippings seemed to only raise more questions than they had answered. When my husband eventually arrived home, I showed him what I brought home from the yard sale, and at first he looked at me like I was nuts, but after he read through some of the clippings and took a look at the other more personal items, he started to see what I did. Anyone with photographs of Jane Doe would have surely known her identity, and would have which case, why didn't they come forward when they learned of her murder? I remember my husband said how, logically speaking, the photos and the clippings might not be connected.

Someone might have just put a bunch of stuff in a box and without once stopping to consider how it might be interpreted when opened by complete strangers, and why the hell would they? But I doubted that very, very much. That seemed like way too much of a coincidence. If there was a bunch of old lottery tickets and a sewing kitten there, then I doubted that. Yeah, maybe I was just a junk box, but everything was too personal, too deliberate. It almost felt like a trophy. My husband didn't want to believe it at first, saying I was just overreacting after getting

in my own head about it, but I told him I was convinced. That wasn't just some random brunette lady. It was the murdered woman. It was Jane Doe. He didn't tell me when it clicked for him, but when I reached for the box, he almost snapped at me when he said, don't touch it. and that's when I knew that he believed it too. He didn't want me to touch anymore because he realized that it might actually be forensic evidence,

something which, in my excitement, I hadn't considered it all up until that point. We got in touch with the police the next morning. They came and took the box, and then as far as I know, they went to talk to the guy that had hosted the yard sale about how exactly he'd come to own it. I called one of the officers that we spoke to a while later and he said that the box, and everything in it had been entered into Jane Doe's evidence file, and while I hadn't exactly blown open the case, it was certainly a development in what had been a decades-old unsolved murder. That was just about the only half-decent thing about this whole story,

but somehow, and even if it was only a little, I actually helped. In early 2013, I was working for a large market research company here in New York City. I'd been there six years. I was very happy, and my career prospects were bright. And then one day, everything changed. It was a Wednesday morning, and after waking up at 6.15, I completed my morning routine and then walked down to the parking lot of my building. Mine was one of maybe 12 to 14 in the lot, and then, as I'm walking toward it, I saw a lone figure leaning up against the wall near the

hood of my car. It seemed to be a young man, early to late 20s, wearing a ball cap and hoodie, and as I walked to my car, the guy just kind of stared at me. I held his game, and he held his gaze, pretty cautious, but not confrontational, and then as I got to my car, I asked if I could help him. Again, I wasn't overly confrontational about it, but he was standing by my car and quite obviously staring at me, so I figured I better work out what his deal was before I unlocked the door. I asked him, can I help you? And then without skipping a beat, he replied, can't nobody help you, homie. I figured he was just trying to be a son. I figured he was just trying to be a smart ass, so I decided not to engage him any further, just got into my car and then started

backing up out of my parking space. But then as I did, and the whole time, hoodie guy is just sort of staring at me, grinning from ear to ear like his little can't-nobody help you homey thing was the dunk of all dunks. And on the drive to work, I got cut off or flipped off maybe a dozen times, all in the space of 30 minutes. And then by the time, one of my bosses, pain in the ass, midweek meetings were finished, I had practically forgotten all about that hoodie guy and his very nonsensical quip. And I went about my day as usual, which is actually a pretty busy one, too, so it wasn't until late in the afternoon that the encounter popped into my head again. Assuming the guy was there to steal a car, or maybe pull a smash and grab to score some valuables,

somebody in my apartment building was about to have a really bad day. But little did I know, even though my car was safely in the employee parking lot, it was still me that was about to have that really bad day. And so, the working day ends, I drive back home, and as I'm pulling into the parking lot, I'm not seeing any broken windows or broken glass in my empty parking spaces, so I figured that we got off lucky. But then, after I walked up to the parking lot,

stairs to the floor my apartment was on, I turned a corner on my corridor and I see it, or more accurately, I smell it. Someone had pooped all over my door. Not like a regular poop either. I'm talking like liquid diarrhea from the spray pattern, and it looked like it had hit my door with considerable force. And I remember just staring at it for a second, in complete disbelief thinking please God no, this can't be freaking happening right now. And then when the smell hit my nostrils, I had to cover up my nose and mouth to keep from gagging. I walked right back down to my car, called an emergency cleaning company, and then called block management to get me copies of the building's security camera footage. All our main doorways and corridors had cameras,

which was half the reason I'd chosen to rent there in the first place. And so the process of contacting management and obtaining copies of that day's footage was a quick and very easy one. After getting those emergency cleaners over and tipping them pretty well for how short notice the job was, I was able to get into my apartment probably by around 9.30. I made some coffee, sat down on my laptop, and just started sifting through the footage that block management had placed in an online dropbox for me. Now, it took me a while to get to the right section of that footage, but sometime in the early afternoon, some hooded figure approached my apartment building's main entrance. This guy was also wearing a hoodie and ball cap combo, but unlike the guy in the

parking lot that morning, this guy was also wearing a hoodie in ball cap combo, but unlike the guy in the parking lot that morning, this one appeared to be wearing a fluorescent vest while carrying a package. Now, assuming that he was a delivery guy, I figured that he was going to walk to an apartment deliver the package and then turn around and leave, but he didn't. Instead, he walked up to my apartment, put the package down, and then dropped his pants, and as you know, browned all over my door. When he finished, he didn't even wipe. He just pulled his pants back up and then walked out of the building so calmly that it was almost like it were an everyday thing for this guy, and I could barely believe what I was seeing. But there it was, clear as day,

And maybe the weirdest thing to me at the time was, it wasn't even the same hoodie and ball cap guy that I'd seen that morning. Or at least I was 90% sure that it wasn't. It was too tall, too broad, and although I had a massive hunch that the two people were connected, I had zero clues as to why they were targeting me. I called the cops, but they were no help whatsoever, and even suggested that I'd try and rule out the possibility that it was a friend of mine, pulling some kind of prank. and after I very politely explained that I didn't have any friends that would poop on my door,

they said that they'd be in touch if there were any developments and kind of laughed. But it was me who called them back the very next morning. I woke up at 6.15, completed my morning routine, then walked down to the parking lot to find my car had been near destroyed in the middle of the night. I called work, told my boss what had happened, and he very kindly gave me the day off. off, so I could talk to the cops and arrange alternative transportation. Now, when I called the cops, I spoke to a different department about my car getting trash, but they seemed just as useless as the first time that I called.

They said that they'd review all the security camera footage I could provide, but since all the hooded perps faces were covered, I knew that there wasn't much that they'd be able to do with it. And I only barely found the motivation to email it over to the address they provided, and then by early evening, I was starting to start. to have some very worrying thoughts. Since I was obviously being targeted at home, it seemed foolish to continue staying in my apartment. And so after my car got towed away for repair, I found a decent looking three-star hotel that had some vacancies nearby and then took a taxi there to make a

booking. I called my dad from the hotel room, just to ask his advice and whatnot, and he agreed that it was very concerning that his group of people seemed to know where I lived. It was one thing for some a-hole to target my car after seeing me drive it, but it was another for this hooded pooper to know exactly which door to do his business on. There was also a clear pattern of escalation, so logically speaking, the next thing that they were going to do was attempt to attack me in my apartment, which, as it turns out, is exactly what they tried to do. I had no idea who they were, and technically I still don't know. But at the time, I made the whole thing doubly frightening and confusing for me. Like how in the hell had such a conflict suddenly started

over a staring contest in a brief exchange of words? And who the hell were the guys targeting me? Were they a gang or something? Were they brothers, cousins, maybe even just friends and I just so happened to have messed with the crazy one? And besides all of that, how far were these guys willing to take this? Well, apparently as far as breaking into my apartment and smashing the entire place to smithereens. So remember how I mentioned booking that hotel room. Well, I decided if I was going to stay there for a week or more than I was going to hit up my apartment to take care of a few things and then grab a few home comforts to take

back to my hotel. And after work, I took a cab back to my apartment, walked upstairs, then what do you know? My apartment door is hanging off of its hinges and one of my neighbors is just sort of standing there, looking like he's seen a ghost. When I walk inside, I understand why. Whoever broke into my apartment had trashed the entire place. The glass in my shower was smashed. They destroyed my bed frame, and then the TV room and kitchenette were both carpeted with chunks of glass and porcelain from where they'd been doing chappy impressions with the contents of my cabinets. That's a terrible baseball reference, by the way. They'd torn up all the art that had been on my walls. My TV and

laptop had been obliterated, but by far the worst and most hurtful thing, they smashed my fish tank, and they killed all my fish. I was devastated, genuinely and soul-shatteringly devastated. To F with me and my stuff? Whatever, man. But to dry drown my fish like that, to hurt innocent little creatures, just living their happy little sea world lives. It took everything I had not to just have a total breakdown in front of my neighbor. Now, cut to about an hour later from that, I'm back in my hotel room and I'm faced with two very cold hard facts. Firstly, I was going to have to call the cops for the third time in as many days, and secondly, I had no choice but to find another place to live. But still, the thread that ran through all three days and the thing that

had me practically tearing my own teeth out in frustration was obviously why. It didn't make any sense, not anymore. Some psycho-trashing my car and pooping on my door because we had a minor confrontation, there was a sort of perverse logic to that, especially if there were some homeless guy on drugs. But I was just left there asking myself, if I was home that night, would they have killed me? And how had things managed to escalate to the point that in just three days, all of this from a minor confrontation? It was like a nightmare. One, I'd have done anything to wake up from, but it wasn't over just yet, not by a long shot. First off, when I got the security camera footage from block management, who by this point were not happy with all the

trouble I was bringing home, I saw that it was the usual suspect, so to speak. Instead of a group of hooded hoodlums bursting into my apartment, similar to the group that had trashed my car, these guys looked different. They were wearing all black, with face masks and gloves. They looked like pros, was almost terrifying. And that's the point that I decided that I was never going to lay my head there ever again, and I started looking for new places to live. But then a few days later, there was another serious escalation. One that made me realize that finding a new place place to live might not solve anything at all. Now, I'd take into riding the metro to and from Grand Central, but that meant walking several blocks from the station to our office building.

Now, I actually didn't mind all that much. It gave me a chance to get a bite to eat after work, and the metro seemed considerably more civilized than the subway. And then, coupled with a peace of mind it gave me, knowing that I wasn't headed anywhere I could be targeted, it made for quite a nice change of pace. But then one day, as I'm turning from Park Avenue onto East 47th, I hear someone call my name. I was just walking along, eating my little box of halal cart, street meats, and fries, and I hear someone yell my name in a way that suggested that they were glad to see me. And that's the only reason I turned around in the first place.

If they'd sounded mad or literally anything but as happy as they sounded, I'd have kept my eyes forward and picked up the pace in the hopes of losing them in the crowd. But they didn't sound mad. They sounded almost excited, so I turned, expecting to see an old friend or old co-worker or something. But instead, I see a total stranger. And this stranger jogs up to me and just sort of goes, boom, and punches me square in the face. I fall backwards. My street meets go tumbling all over me and the stranger goes running.

off still shouting my name, but also adding stuff like, you suck, dude, you suck. No, it being New York, only three of the maybe two dozen people who saw me get decked were like, oh damn, you okay, buddy? And walked over to see if I was okay. And needless to say, I was not. At that point, I had had a few days of nothing happening. I had a ton of crap to deal with in terms of getting my car roadworthy again and finding a new place to live, and I still had the mystery of the whole thing bearing down on me. But there was this short period where I thought that the worst had come and gone. Something weird and effed up was going on, but once they figured out where I lived, finding me was a piece of cake, I guess. But after the punch, I realized they, whoever they were,

were somehow able to track me during my commute. Realizing that I wasn't safe anywhere, possibly not even in my own goddamn hotel room, this took everything to a whole other level of stress and fear for me. And it might sound pathetic to some, so might as well say it like it is, but I literally wanted to run home to my mommy and daddy. I just didn't know where else to turn to, because the police had only just started to take things seriously, and by that point I was obviously in way over my head and in serious danger. But the real dilemma was knowing that if I'd did head home to my parents' place, I might potentially lead my attackers there and put my parents at risk, too. I couldn't even tell them how bad it had gotten by then, because I knew they'd

insist on intervening in some way, which, again, might put them at risk. I had the cops, and I had my boss, because once they understood how serious the situation was, my employers were very understanding, and basically put me on indefinite paid leave until the whole situation could be rectified. And so between the my bosses, my co-workers, my soon-to-be ex-landlords, and my prospective new landlords, my phone was very active. I spent long periods of time returning phone calls and responding to text messages, and I became very accustomed to seeing my screen light up with unknown and withheld phone numbers. A few nights later, I was in a different hotel room when my phone starts buzzing on the desk with number private written on the screen. I didn't hesitate for a second,

I swiped the call open, brought my phone to my ear and was greeted by someone very well-spoken and confident who had a very deep voice. When the guy used my name, I figured it was either a cop or someone responding to a tenancy application that I'd failed out. Yet slowly but surely, I realized that call was from someone very different. He knew a lot about me, and he appeared to use the information to confirm it was actually me he was talking to. He used my name, named my employer. He even knew the address of my old apartment, the one I was planning on moving out of. I only answered one or two of his questions before I politely asked why he was calling, and that's when he introduced himself with the name, Odin.

Odin, which he made clear was not his real name, worked for some tech company out West, and the reason he was calling was that he had found some of my personal information on the Internet. And at first, it was sort of like, okay, so what? Because I figured he was talking about my social media or the email address and phone number listed on my employer's website. But that's not what Odin was referring to. He said my name, my old address, photos of me, and even things like my employment history

were all available to read on a website he called DocSpin. And that name meant nothing to me at the time. I wasn't even sure exactly what he said, but these days I still get a shudder when I read it or hear it spoken. For those that don't know, Doxpin was or is, I heard it was back, but I can't say for certain, a website that you can't access via your regular internet browser. It's located on what some people call the dark web. But Odin said it's more like the deep web.

And from what I understand, all you really need is a special browser and you can see all the stuff you can't see on Chrome or Internet Exploble. order. Odin said that I could see for myself if I wanted to follow his instructions on how to download and install that special kind of browser. But after I agreed that it'd just be faster to send me the screenshots, he did that, and I saw for myself what was written on that website. Someone, I had no idea who at this stage, had not only listed all my personal information, they also claimed that I had several convictions involving inappropriate activities with children. The post essentially said that I was masquerading as my actual self, because I was some didler trying

to relocate and make a new life for myself after charges were filed in Ohio and Illinois. And that's when it all clicked. The random guy trying to intimidate me, people pooping on my door, smashing my car, and punching me in the face, all related to that initial confrontation. It's just that initial confrontation came as a result of this wild on online accusation from what I thought was a completely anonymous source. But it wasn't anonymous, not completely anyway. And not only had Odin used his computer wizardry to figure out who the post was from, but he seemed more than happy to share what he'd learn.

And now from what I understand, the dark or deep web is mostly only accessible through anonymous browsers and the vast majority of posts on Doxpin were from anonymous users. But Odin figured he'd do a little digging to find out. who I'd pissed off so much that they'd want to ruin my life. He Googles my name, but nothing really came up, so he checks out the charges and finds the whole Dockspin post as just some elaborate lie. Odin then circles back to trying to figure out who's mad at me and ends up searching for people who have recently separated from the research company I worked for. He finds one guy who looks like he knows his way around a Tor browser, a real takes one-to-no-one kind of deal. He then

discovers his kindred spirit has a blog on the surface web, something he can peruse at his leisure. And that's when he realizes that the writing styles of his posts and the one on Dockspin revealing my info are almost identical. Odin explained all that for about a minute or two before I practically begged him to tell me the name of a suspect. And then when he told me, it was like this sort of holy crap moment where everything suddenly came together and started making sense. I don't want to say the guy's name. I'd rather take the high ground and not docks, the docks, so to speak, but I immediately recognized it from a review I'd conducted, which had just so happened to contribute to this guy's severance from the company. He was lazy, unkempt,

rarely showed up on time, and barely got his work done. But apparently beneath the greasy surface, our boy was as skilled with a computer as he was vindictive. And then when he got wind that it was me that conducted his review, well, my fate was sealed. I remember sitting on the hotel bed, my phone in one hand, head in the other, massaging my temples between my thumb and ring finger trying to stave off the incoming migraine. I think it was a case of too much information all at once, as well as swinging back and forth between thinking the call was just another prank and believing Odin was genuine. But I think by the time he dropped the name of the guy who got fired, I figured Odin knew way too much about everything for it to be a ruse.

He was also willing to share everything except his identity, so unless it was all some elaborate scam, he seemed to be genuinely on my side. But here's the part where the paranoia returned with a vengeance, because towards the end of the call, Odin asked for money. He claimed he'd be able to take down the post about me. But since it was a time-critical situation, in that the longer had stayed up, the longer I'd be at risk, he'd need help breaking into the website so he could get the job done.

And that meant asking some friends if they'd help him out, and those friends would require financial compensation for their efforts. Basically, if I transferred Odin a few thousand dollars in Bitcoin, he could make the whole thing go away. And right away, alarm bells started going off in my head. I actually asked him straight up if it was him that had posted my info as a sort of roundabout way of blackmailing me into taking it down. And then he sort of laughed nervously and then admitted that did have a certain devious genius to it. But if all he really wanted was money, there were a hundred ways he could scam or extort me, all without having to take the time to call and explain this whole terrible situation. And that's another thing that convinced me that he was legitimate.

I'm well aware that he might have been playing the long game, and that maybe the deception was, I don't know, all part of the game for him. But whoever Odin was, he made me an offer I couldn't refuse, an offer that was in such good faith that he offered to take the post down prior to asking for payment. He didn't need to inform me of what he was capable of doing should I choose not to pay him, and I had a pretty good idea from experience, so I did. but not after 10 whole days went by without incident. He checked in every day, sort of as a reminder that I owed him,

but also just to make sure nothing else had happened. He said that there was every chance my old apartment might be targeted again, but only by guys who already knew where I lived and still believed I was some kind of child predator. But with the post taken down, there hopefully wouldn't be anyone else planning on teaching me a lesson, or however the guy's post phrased it. But I was skeptical. I mean, there was still that voice in the back of my mind saying, you just got scammed. But as the days went by and there were no further incidents at my old apartment building,

that voice got quieter and quieter before being silenced completely. On the 10th day, I converted Odin's money into Bitcoin and finally sent it over to his wallet in this very complex process. And he then called me to offer a brief word of thanks, but the call ended with me thanking him. and pretty profusely too. As it happened to be so, when we ended the call, I decided to call him back just a few minutes later to ask if I could ever enlist his services again, should I require them?

And no sooner had I hit dial that I heard this doll-toned, but the number had been disconnected. A few days went by, and the more I thought about this whole mess, the more that creeping sense of paranoia started to return. I became more and more convinced that Odin had been the one responsible for the whole ordeal. At least until I realized that there was a way I could kind of verify if what he told me was true or not. I called in a favor with one of the ladies in HR, then one afternoon, while I was still staying in that hotel room.

I dialed a number that I had written on a piece of paper and hit call. Seconds later, I heard a voice on the other end of the phone. It was the guy whose review I'd conducted. the one who ended up getting fired as a result, and after putting on the cheeryest voice possible, I began to speak. I told him who it was, told him I'd learned of his severance, and then told him how sorry I was to hear about it. He sounded surprised, but not scared, so I'd just kind of carried on.

I told him that I'd heard about a potential opportunity at another company and asked if he'd like me to keep him informed of any vacancies. Again, he sounded confused, but he told me, sure. and that he'd like that. I ended the call by saying how good it was to hear from him again. It was all a lie, but one I wanted to gauge his reaction with. I wanted to hear the hatred in his voice. I wanted anything to confirm that he'd been motivated to try and ruin my entire life.

But the thing that got him was this. Right as I was about to hang up, and we were trapped in that meandering exchange of thanks for calling and talk to you soon, maybe I told him, I know what you did. I believe an innocent person would have, at the very minimum, replied with something sort of like, huh? Did what?

But he didn't say a single goddamn word. And for a brief moment, it sounded like he was going to say something, like he was thinking or deciding on some killer comeback to zing me. But he didn't. He just hung up. And that was all I needed. Odin hadn't been lying to me. or if he was he was in cahoots with the guy who posted that and then i got to take my hat off to just a well-laid-out scam but something about the way the guy said nothing it was almost like he knew he was being recorded or you can bet your bottom dollar that i filmed the whole thing using my laptop camera just on the off chance that i'd forced an admission he knew that he couldn't prove anything not if he kept his mouth shut and didn't gloat about it so in the end i guess he got away

with it. But I got what I wanted. What seemed more important than anything else by that stage was peace of mind. I saw the cause and effect clear as day, and though it made for one hell of a ride, I could finally make some sense of what had been happening to me. I don't live in New York anymore. I don't even live on the East Coast, and nor do I still work in market research. And I'm happy, I'll say that much. But at this stage, I'm far too jaded to post anything too revealing and online spaces. And to anyone who reads this, I implore you. Be very careful regarding what personal information you allow to be posted online, because there are some deeply disturbed people out there who will jump at the chance to use it against you.

I still think about Liz, sometimes every day. She loved gardening, and her yard always looked neat, and I would wave to her on Saturday mornings when she was working on her flowers, and she was always smiling. This happened on January 25, 2019, and that Friday morning was very, very much. cold for Houston. I was making coffee when I heard four loud pops. I thought it was fireworks at first. Something felt wrong. I looked out the window and saw someone running away from Liz's driveway and getting into a truck, and then the truck sped off. I went outside with my phone ready to call 911, and Liz was there lying on the ground near her driveway, and she wasn't moving.

There was a small table in some boxes nearby from the garage sale that she was setting up. Neighbors started coming out of their homes, looking confused and worried. The paramedics came quickly and worked on Liz, but it was clear that things were very bad. Later I found out that she had passed away at the hospital. She was only 29 years old, and I never thought something so awful could happen in our neighborhood. The police said Liz had been shot at close range by someone who walked up to her. A neighbor's security camera caught part of it, and the video showed a person getting out of a black Nissan frontier, walking up to Liz, shooting her, and driving away. And it all happened in seconds.

Liz and her husband, Sergio, were loved by everyone. They were high school sweethearts and had been married for about four years. They loved Star Wars and Harry Potter and went to conventions together. And the garage sale Liz was having that morning was to help pay for a trip to Universal Studios to celebrate their fifth anniversary. and knowing this made her death even sadder. After Liz died, the neighborhood changed drastically. People were sad and scared, and we kept wondering who could have done this. Was it someone she knew?

Was it random? The police talked to neighbors and looked at security videos, but they didn't find any answers. They released the video of the suspect in the truck, hoping someone would recognize them, and nobody did. I kept thinking about that morning. Could I have done something to help? Could I have seen more? Remembered a license plate? And that guilt stuck with me.

I would sit and stare at Liz's house hoping to see her again even though I knew that I wouldn't. The empty driveway was a painful reminder of what had happened. As Sergio moved out a few months later, totally understandable. It must have been too hard for him to stay in the house with all of those memories. That house was sold and new people moved. in. They're nice, but to me it will always be Liz's home. And years have passed, but the case is still unsolved. Sometimes the news will run a story about Liz, hoping to keep her memory alive, and the reward for information has grown, but no one has come forward. And it makes me so

angry to know the person who did this is still free out there. I joined a local group that helps with unsolved cases. We hold events, hand out flyers, and try to keep cases like Liz's and the public sky. It's not much, but it feels like I'm doing something. Liz and her family deserve justice. Every year on the anniversary of her death, I leave yellow roses at her driveway, as yellow was her favorite color. Other neighbors do the same, and it's a quiet way to show that we haven't forgotten her. Sometimes at night I look out my window and wonder if the answer is closer than we think. Did someone see something that they're too scared to tell? Could the killer be nearby? Not knowing is become very hard. Liz's death taught me that life is fragile, that bad things don't always make

sense. But it also showed me how people can come together during very tough times. Our neighborhood has changed, and we're more careful to look out for each other even more now. We value small moments like that. I miss Liz. I miss her smile and kindness, and I carry her memory with me and will keep trying to get justice for her. Someone has to. She deserves it. in my neighborhood running a yard sale. She was selling some old furniture, clothes, and knick-knacks. A few neighbors had stopped by to look around. Our small dog was tied up to a post nearby. That small dog was barking every so often. Down the street, there was a larger dog that lived with his owner, and he was a big dog, a mix of some kind, and his owner usually kept him in the

backyard or on a leash when they went for walks. But this morning, something went wrong. the gate to the big dog owner's backyard had been left open and that big dog saw his chance and ran out into the street at first that big dog was just exploring he sniffed around and ran back and forth and then he noticed the people and the tables up ahead his tail wagged as he ran toward the closest yard sale but as he got closer his energy shifted and his bark grew louder and more aggressive his eyes locked on the crowd and he charged forward people saw the big dog coming and started to back away and a little boy dropped the toy that he was holding and screamed as he ran to his mom but the big dog didn't stop he jumped onto a table knocking over a stack of books and smashing a bunch of glass the lady looked up and shouted get away but that dog didn't listen he grabbed a stuffed animal

from the table and started tearing it apart then the big dog turned as a table as a attention to the little dog. And the little dog was barking, the big dog barked back, and then it attacked. The lady screamed and grabbed the little dog just in time, and the big one circled her. She began yelling for help, and the crowd began to scatter. A man who had been browsing a table nearby tried to intervene, yelling and stepping in front of the lady and her dog, and that big dog then attacked the man. The dog sunk his teeth into the man's leg. He yells out in pain and tried to push the dog away, but the dog wouldn't let go. The man fell to the ground trying to kick the big dog, but the dog's strength was too much. People were screaming. One man threw

a folding chair at that dog and did nothing. The dog let go of the man's leg and jumped on his chest. The man used his arms to shield his face and the dog scratched him as he yelled for help. That dog's owner came running down the street shouting at the dog to stop and it did and its owner then clipped the leash onto its collar. That bigger dog's owner said that he was sorry. Someone at that point had already called the cops, and someone else began to yell at that dog owner. Paramedics arrived and began treating the man's injuries before loading him into an ambulance, and neighbors stood around talking to one another.

The dog's owner apologized again. The yard was a mess with broken glass and scattered items everywhere. Some people helped the lady clean up, and the street was quiet again. All I know as a bystander who just sat and watched everything unfold is that myself nor anyone in the neighborhood will ever forget that day. In 2018, the quiet neighborhoods of Fort Worth, Texas became the hunting grounds for a predator. What should have been ordinary friendly interactions during community garage sales turned into a nightmare as a series of crime struck fear into unsuspecting homeowners.

The media soon dubbed the criminal, the Texas garage sale stalker, a name that sends shivers down the spines of those hostings. and attending these everyday events. Garage sales are a cherished tradition in many American neighborhoods, and Fort Worth was no exception. Families used these sales to declutter their homes and make extra cash while fostering a sense of community. It was a safe, casual environment where strangers could peruse items

and neighbors could connect over shared stories. But in 2018, these gatherings became a fertile ground for a monster. someone who saw the sales not as an opportunity to bargain, but as a chance to prey on the vulnerable. The terror began in March, when a woman hosting a garage sale noticed a man lingering longer than most customers. He asked innocuous questions about a piece of furniture, but seemed more interested in observing her movements in the layout of her home. Later that evening, as she was packing up unsold items, the man returned, only this time he was armed. he demanded cash and valuables forcing his way into her home though she survived the encounter physically unharmed she was deeply shaken the man escaped before police arrived who chalked it up to a one-off robbery however within weeks similar incidents began cropping up in nearby neighborhoods by late spring a clear pattern had emerged the attacker targeted women hosting garage sales alone or with minimal help he struck near the end of the sales, when most items were packed away and neighbors had dispersed.

Victims described him as a middle-aged man with an average build, wearing unremarkable clothing, a face that would easily blend into a crowd. The attacker used different methods to enter homes. Sometimes he pretended to inquire about items, other times he forced his way inside. Once in, he demanded money and occasionally ransacked the home for valuables, though the robberies didn't always involve physical violence. the psychological toll was immense. Victims were left traumatized,

fearing for their safety and the sanctity of their homes. The media caught wind of the crimes by early summer. Headlines warned homeowners to stay vigilant during garage sales and community forums were flooded with accounts of strange encounters. Residents shared tips on staying safe, such as doing garage sales and pairs or groups and not allowing customers inside their homes for any reason. Despite these precautions,

the attacker continued to strike. Police advised the public to report suspicious behavior, but identifying the stalker proved difficult. He avoided security cameras and chose neighborhoods with limited surveillance. His nondescript appearance and tendency to leave quickly made it hard for witnesses to provide detailed descriptions. In July, one victim's quick thinking nearly led to the attacker's capture. A woman hosting a garage sale noticed a man fitting the stalker's description

loitering near her driveway. She became suspicious when he lingered without showing much interest in her items. She discreetly alerted a neighbor who began taking photos of the man from across the street. Sensing he had been spotted, the man left abruptly, abandoning any plans he might have had to strike. The neighbor shared the photos with police, but they were grainy and insufficient for identification. And still, the encounter marked a very strong turning point. The community became determined to stop. the stalker, and the stalker's reign of terror came to a head in late August.

A woman hosting a garage sale on the outskirts of Fort Worth was attacked after her event ended. This time, the encounter escalated to violence. The attacker struck her with a butt of his gun, leaving her unconscious before fleeing with cash and jewelry. She was found by a neighbor who had heard the commotion and called 911. The brutality of this attack intensified the urgency of the investigation. Police increased patrols in neighborhoods where garage sales were common and set up decoy sales in an attempt to lure the stalker. The community's vigilance also grew, with many canceling their sales altogether, moving them to safer centralized locations. The breakthrough came in September, when the stalker grew careless. He attempted to rob a garage sale

in a neighborhood that had formed a community watch group. Unbeknownst to him, several members were observing the sale from nearby cars, ready to intervene if anything seemed to miss. When he approached the homeowner aggressively, the group sprang into action, blocking his escape route and calling the police. The man tried to flee on foot, but was quickly apprehended. He was identified as Mark Eldridge, a 43-year-old drifter with a history of petty theft and burglary. Eldridge had no fixed address, which explained his ability to move undetected between neighborhoods. Police found stolen items in his vehicle, linking him to several of the robberies. Eldridge's arrest brought a sense of relief to Fort Worth, but the scars he left behind were

lasting. Many victims struggled with anxiety and fear, and the community's sense of safety was deeply shaken. Garage sales, once a simple and enjoyable tradition, became a reminder of vulnerability. During his trial, Eldridge showed little remorse. He was convicted on multiple accounts of of robbery, assault, and burglary, and sentenced to 25 years in prison. Prosecutors described him as a predator who exploited trust and community spirit for his own gain. The Texas Garage Sale Stalker case highlighted the dangers of seemingly innocent events in the importance of vigilance. Residents of Fort Worth took the lessons to heart, implementing safety measures to protect

themselves in the future. These included hosting sales in groups using visible security cameras and maintaining constant communication with neighbors. Though the ordeal was traumatic, it also brought the community closer together. Neighbors who had been strangers banded together to support one another, ensuring that no one faced the threat alone. The picturesque town of Dyersburg, Tennessee, nestled along the Mississippi River is the kind of place where neighbors know each other and life is quiet. But in 2015, the town became the focus of national attention due to the mysterious disappearance

and subsequent murder of Karen Swift, a 44-year-old mother of four. What began as a seemingly ordinary day with a yard sale ended in tragedy, leaving behind a puzzle that remains unsolved to this day. On October 30, 2015, Karen Swift spent her Saturday hosting a yard sale at her home. A devoted mother, she was known for her vivacious personality and active involvement in the community. The yard sale drew numerous visitors throughout the day as Karen cheerfully interacted with buyers, many of whom were. neighbors and acquaintances. For Karen, it was an opportunity to declutter her home and connect with others in her close-knit community. That evening, Karen attended a Halloween party with friends. She returned home late and spoke briefly with her estranged husband, David Swift, who still

lived in the family home despite their ongoing divorce proceedings. According to reports, the two had a cordial but strained relationship, sharing the residents to co-parent their children. and the early hours of October 31st, Karen went missing. When Karen's friends and family realized that she had vanished, alarm bells went off. Her car, a white 2004 Nissan Marano, was found abandoned on a rural road just a few miles from her home. The vehicle's tires were flat, and her belongings, including her purse and phone, were left inside. However, there was no sign of Karen herself. Dyer County authorities immediately launched a search.

Friends, family, and volunteers combed through nearby wooded areas, fields, and waterways, hoping to find any trace of Karen. Her disappearance struck fear into the hearts of the community, as speculations swirled about what might have happened. Was she abducted by someone that she met at the arts sale? Was her a strange husband involved, or was it the work of a stranger? The case took a devastating turn on December 10, 2015, when, Karen's decomposed body was discovered in the wooded area near a cemetery, less than three miles from her home.

Her remains were concealed under foliage, and the area appeared to have been deliberately chosen to hide her body. An autopsy revealed that she had suffered blunt force trauma to the head. The discovery confirmed what many had feared. Karen Swift had been murdered. However, the identity of her killer remained a mystery, and the investigation into her death became more complex as a third. authorities sifted through a growing list of suspects. Karen's life was undergoing significant changes at the time of her death. She had recently filed for divorce from David Swift, citing irreconcilable differences. Friends described the marriage as troubled with Karen seeking

a fresh start. The divorce proceedings, however, were contentious, and David's behavior came under scrutiny following Karen's disappearance. In addition to her marital struggles, Karen had been involved in local fitness groups and was active on social media. Her outgoing personality and wide circle of acquaintances led investigators to explore whether someone she knew could have harbored ill intentions. One of the more intriguing aspects of the case was the yard sale Karen hosted on the day before her disappearance. A yard sale is a public event attracting strangers to a private residence. Investigators considered the possibility that Karen's killer might have been someone who attended the sale and used it as an opportunity to target her.

However, no concrete evidence linked any of the yard sale attendees to the murder. As the investigation progressed, David Swift became a person of interest. Though he publicly denied any involvement, his strained relationship with Karen and his presence of the family home on the night of her disappearance drew suspicion. Friends of Karen claimed that she expressed fear of David in the weeks leading up to her death, and there were rumors of past domestic disputes. And despite these allegations, authorities did not charge David Swift with any crime.

He cooperated with the investigation and maintained his innocence, but the cloud of suspicion continued to hang over him. Other theories emerged as well. Some speculated that Karen's killer could have been a stranger who abducted her after her car broke down. Others suggested that she might have been the victim of someone she had met through her social circles or online activity. However, none of those theories produced definitive leads. As months turned into years, the investigation to Karen Swift's murder stalled. Despite the efforts of law enforcement and private investigators,

no arrests were made and no new evidence came to light. The lack of witnesses and forensic evidence left the case at a standstill, frustrating Karen's family and friends. The community of Dyersburg remained haunted by Karen's death. Her children, left without their mother, faced the difficult task of moving forward while grappling with unanswered questions surrounding her murder. Karen's friends continued to advocate for justice, organizing memorials and raising awareness about her case in the hopes of keeping it in the public eye. Several key questions remain

unanswered. Who killed Karen Swift? Was it someone she knew or a random attacker? Investigators have never publicly identified a suspect or motive. The flat tires on Karen's vehicle suggests that she may have been forced to stop, but but it's unclear whether this was staged or coincidental. While there is no evidence tying the yard sale to her murder, the timing raises questions about whether someone who attended the sale might have returned later. And despite extensive efforts by law enforcement,

the case remains unsolved, leading to frustration and speculation about investigative missteps or lack of resources. Karen Swift's murder remains one of the most perplexing and tragic cases in Tennessee's recent history. her family continues to seek answers, holding out hope that new evidence will emerge or that someone with knowledge of the crime will come forward. In the meantime, her case serves as a chilling reminder of how quickly life can change and the enduring pain of unanswered questions.

For the residents of Dyersburg, the loss of Karen Swift is a scar that is yet to heal. Her vibrant spirits and love for her children are remembered, even as the search for her killer continues. It was a cold. It was a cold weekend morning when I was walking through the neighborhood with a cup of coffee in my hand. I noticed a yard sale at this old house. It wasn't much, just a folding table and a few blankets spread out on the grass, but something about it caught my attention.

Maybe it was the idea that someone's old stuff might actually hold a hidden gem. An elderly man sat behind the table, and he looked tired, but still had a smile on his face. He asked if I was looking for anything in particular, and I shook my head and said no, just sort of scanning through the items. There were old books, porcelain figurines, some vintage. lamps and a box of very tarnished silverware. I picked up an old hardcover book with a faded green cover. As I flipped through its pages, the man spoke again, and he said the book had stories

in it, some of them supposedly true. He added that he never could finish it himself because it was actually too spooky. And I just sort of laughed and was about to ask how much he wanted for it when I heard a truck pull up. A black pickup truck stopped and four teenagers climbed out. one of them sort of sneered kicking a garden gnome that was sitting by the sidewalk and the gnome fell over and actually broke into pieces at that moment the elderly man's smile faded he asked those teenagers to move along if they weren't interested in buying anything one skinny kid with dark hair and a cruel grin picked up one of the porcelain figures asked how much it was and the man told him something like five to ten bucks the teenager just laughed and threw the figurine to the ground shattering it into pieces. The man asked him not to do that, and he explained that the figurine belonged to his late wife and asked them to have some respect. The skinny kid just grinned again.

He shoved the old man's chest, making him stumble back. I wanted to say something, but it was all just like too surreal, you know, and I genuinely was too scared, I'm embarrassed to say. The old man tried to stand his ground. He said he'd called the police and pulled out his phone. That skinny kid grabbed the phone and threw it into the street, and then before anyone could react, he punched the old man, who then fell to the ground. That gang of teens started kicking and hitting him, and the rest of us just stood there, frozen, and all it could do was hold on to that book and watch. Finally, after what felt like a very long time, I heard a siren in the distance. Someone must have called the cops, and those teenagers took off in their truck. The old man lay on the ground. He was bleeding, and a few people slowly went over to help him up. I just stayed where I was, feeling very ashamed. And when the police arrived, they took statements.

I handed the book back to the old man who was sitting on the porch with an ice pack on his swollen face, and he told me just to keep it. That night, I dreamed of that yard sale. This time, the teenagers weren't just breaking things. They were breaking me. And the old man just... stood there, smiling, letting it all play out. in the neighborhood, and I wasn't looking for anything specific, just seeing if there was anything interesting. After visiting a few, I was about to go home when I saw an old metal box under a table at one of the sales. I asked the lady in charge of the sale how much she wanted for the box, and she said the box belonged to her uncle, and she had no idea what was inside. Then after thinking

for a moment, she said that she wanted $5 for it. I gave her the money and carried the box to my car. As I held it, I thought that I felt a slight vibration or sort of hum, but I wasn't sure. I figured it was just my imagination and then drove home, eager to see what was inside. When I opened the box in my kitchen, I saw a small metal ball. It was warm when I touched it. The air felt heavy around it, too, and it had a symbol on it that I didn't recognize. Below the ball were some old papers. They were yellowed and had strange equations and diving.

diagrams on them. Since I didn't understand any of them, I thought that it might be a good idea to ask someone online about it. I took a picture of the glowing ball and posted it on a forum asking if anyone knew what it was, and I got a lot of replies. Most people joked about it being from aliens or a movie prop, but one comment stood out to me, said, get rid of it. It's radioactive. I felt my stomach drop. I moved away from the box, feeling nervous, and I didn't know what to do next. Should I call someone? But who? Then I got a private message in my inbox. It was from someone who said that they worked in nuclear safety. And the message said, Don't touch it anymore. Move it to a safe place and let me help you. And I followed their instructions

to the letter. I took the box to my garage and put it inside a plastic container, and I stayed as far away from it as I could while moving it. The person messaged me again asking for more details and they wanted to know the size of the ball, its color, and about the papers. And they explained that warm metal objects can sometimes be radioactive, especially if they're old lab samples or industrial materials, and the person then told me to call the authorities. I was scared, but knew that they were right, and I called the police. They transferred me to a state agency that handles dangerous materials.

And about an hour later, a team arrived in my house wearing protective suits and carrying special equipment. The team scanned the ball with the device that made clicking noises, and the clicks got faster the closer they got to the ball. They told me it was radioactive. One of them said that it was lucky that I hadn't kept it in the house for long because it could have possibly made me very sick, and the carefully packed the ball and the papers into a special container that was lined with lead, and then took it away.

Later, I found out the police questioned the woman who sold me the box. She said that she had no idea her uncle had anything dangerous. She explained that he had been a chemist many years ago. The radioactive ball was probably something that he had worked on and forgotten about. And the authorities told me that they would investigate further, but I never heard anything else about it. Now, for weeks after this happened, I couldn't stop thinking about it. That glowing ball could have caused serious harm, and at first it seemed like a fun mystery, but it turned out to be very dangerous.

I thought about how close I had come to putting myself and others at risk just because I was curious. And I haven't gone to any yard sales since that day. The whole experience has made me very nervous about bringing unknown things into my home. And now whenever I see an interesting object for sale, I think twice. Hey, friends, thanks for listening. Don't forget to hit that follow button to be alerted of our weekly episodes every Tuesday at 1 p.m. EST. And if you haven't already, check out Let's Read on YouTube,

where you can catch all my new video releases every Monday and Thursday at 9 p.m. EST. Thanks so much, friends. and I'll see you in the next episode.