The Lets Read Podcast - 310: THE LEGEND OF OLD BEN | 9 TERRIFYING True Scary Stories | EP 296

Episode Date: September 9, 2025

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about the Pacific Crest Trail & Law enforcement 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 Today's episode is spnsored by: Betterhelp Undisclosed: Toward Justice

I'm going to be able to be. My name is Rachel. I'm from Los Angeles and have recently discovered your Spotify podcast, and I think I have a story for you and your listeners. You see, back in 2013, I read a book called Wild by Cheryl Strait. It's all about how the author's life fell apart after the death of her mom and how she used hiking to get herself sober and put her life back together. Most of the book takes place on the Pacific Crest Trail, with the physical challenges prompting the author to have a series of realizations about her life, and to me, it was like the hardship of walking a thousand miles of trail allowed her to unlock some kind of untapped source of ancient, collective wisdom. I was 22 when I first read it, and honestly it spoke to me more than any piece of art or literature had before. I wanted that same kind of clarity, that innate wisdom to know what did and didn't matter in life. I just didn't think that I had it in me to go hiking the PCT all alone. That all changed around 2016.

When the hiking bug finally bit me and I started planning my own hiking trip along the Pacific Crest Trail to try and capture the same kind of magic I read about in wild, Since I couldn't afford to spend too much time away from work, I decided to hike a five-night stretch of trail near a place called Tohachapi on the far-western edges of the Mojave Desert. I chose this area for three reasons. First, I loved the section of the book where Cheryl writes about the region. Secondly, I could easily drive there, and thirdly, I was admittedly very intimidated by the prospect of hiking the more northern sections of the trail in the fall or winter. It was my first time doing anything remotely outdoorsy, and having heard the horror stories regarding mishaps and accidents, I didn't want to run before I could hike.

Please laugh at that. So it was five nights, in Southern California, just to get a taste of what Cheryl Strayed had written about. On day one, I drove out to Hatchapie, really early, then found the RV park that I'd arranged to leave my car at for the next few days. Then, it was nine miles of hiking towards a place called Twin Oaks. And let me tell you, after all day trudging along in the heat, it was still sweltering even in the early fall,

I was desperate to reach Lake Isabella the next day. I'd read that since all the water was coming down from the high Sierra, the creek could be unpleasantly cold at certain times of the year. They wrote it like it was a warning, but the idea of getting to cool off, that seemed almost heavenly after that first day's hike. The next morning, I was faced with a 20-mile hike from Twin Oaks to Lake Isabella on what I'd like to call my challenge day.

The nine miles of the first day was intended as a kind of warm-up, something manageable so I could get used to the pacing, the terrain, and navigation. But the second day, my challenge day, was where I'd really try to replicate the grueling pace of Cheryl Strait's journey in wild, but frankly, I couldn't have picked a worse stretch of terrain. The second day's hike required to hike up and out of a valley, which was hell on my legs, which were still totally unaccustomed to that level of exertion. The only real relief came from the shade of the trees as I walked through the chaparrales, and finally at the waters of Lake Isabella, where I was so tired I was on the verge of nodding out by around 9.30 that

night. The next morning, I woke up sore, tired, and cursing myself for having totally overextended myself. I was faced with another 13 miles, which was laid out over much easier to rain, but by then, I was so tired that I wasn't sure if I could make it in time. My goal was to camp near the Sugarloaf Mountain Campground, as I knew there'd be a lot of amenities there that I'd be sorely in need of by the end of day three. But the 20 miles of the previous day felt like it almost killed me, so being faced with a similar distance, that third day was intimidating, to say the least. Hiking across the open desert near Isabella was tiring, but simple, as the trail in front of me was easy to stick to. But then towards

the afternoon, as I started up into the hills, I began hitting these patches of forests where the trail wasn't nearly as well-defined. At one point, I walked off the trail just a little to take a bathroom break, then when I returned, I thought I was heading down the same trail that I'd just been walking on. But after around 10 to 15 minutes, the trail opened up into a dirt road, and I realized that it was taking me off the PCT and down towards Wofford Heights. I decided to take the opportunity to stop, drink a little water, and check over my map just to ensure that I hit the right trail upon heading back. I thought I was alone, like literally there wasn't a soul in sight. But then as I was focused on studying my map book, the sound of a man's voice suddenly startled me. All he said was

hi there, and a cheerful, friendly voice, and when he saw that he'd startled me, we both kind of laughed it off as he apologized. He was a short, tanned man in a vest, shorts and sandals, with a sandy-colored bush hat atop his head, and he introduced himself as Alan, said he lived down the path and a home closer to the highway, and added that he often ran into hikers during his own walks up in the hills. Since he was out on a short afternoon constitutional, his actual choice of word, he offered to walk me back toward the trail, then direct me onto the path, which would take me to Sugarloaf Campground. He was a warm and very friendly person, so I figured why not? and then we begin walking at a leisurely pace back toward the trail.

Alan and I talked a little bit about what I was doing out there, as well as why I was doing it. He said he thought it was really cool that a book had inspired me to head off on a real-life adventure and told me that in his youth, he'd always wanted to head off on some cross-country road trip after reading Jack Carrowax on the road again. He also said that I'd picked a great stretch of trail to get to grips with, that it was a little challenging for a beginner maybe,

but that I should be proud of myself for making it that far without collapsing or giving up. At the time, his praise meant the world to me, and I guess Alan will always have a special place in my heart for that reason. But, as I'm very sorry to say, my memory of the man is somewhat tainted by the warning he gave me. It was a warning that, in hindsight, I'm very appreciative of. But the memory of him and what came next on my little soul-searching adventure are frighteningly inextricable.

Alan told me that the wilderness between Black Mountain and Sugarloaf Mountain was some of the wildest in America. Although officially speaking, it was state land that no one but park rangers could build houses on. But unofficially, the hills north of Alta Sierra were home to a very unusual and extroverted person. and his name was Old Ben. Alan said Old Ben was a hermit, that he'd been living out there for as long as anyone could remember, and although he was an eccentric old recluse, he was harmless, and had never been known to hurt anybody.

I can't remember the exact words he used, but as soon as Alan said the thing about Old Ben having never hurt anyone, I was kind of on edge. I mean, it was a very loaded statement, right? Why even bring it up at all? I asked Alan what exactly he meant by eccentric, if he had to follow up with such a weighty reassurance. Then, in so many words, he told me it was a very long and very complicated story, and one unworthy of telling, since I probably wouldn't even bump into old Ben in the first place.

But on the rare chance that I did just so I happened to run into him, I was to rest assured that he posed no threat to me whatsoever. Again, I couldn't help but feel the very opposite of reassured by what Alan was telling me, but at the same time, I was not without protection. Securing a permit to carry a concealed firearm on the California section of the PCT involved navigating a complex web of state and local regulations. I began researching California's concealed carry laws and then applied through the San Diego Sheriff's Office by submitting proof of residency and some photos before completing a firearms training course.

And after that, I had to submit an online application and had to pass a live fire qualification for my listed firearms. Then it was just a case of waiting for the background check to be finished before I could finally pick up my license. Once all that was over and done with, I had to familiarize myself with the PCT-specific regulations regarding firearms, because, to be perfectly honest, there was no way I was going to head out there in the ass end of nowhere without being able to properly defend myself. On the advice of a store owner, I picked up a Sig Sour P-365, and it's been my hiking companion ever since. Since I had my sig and my backpack, I most certainly knew how to use it. I wasn't overly afraid of running into some kooky old hermit, no matter how weird he was.

but as you can imagine I was still a little apprehensive and after Alan and I parted ways you can bet my head was on a swivel as I hiked up into the pine-covered hills I made good time during that second half of the day's journey and by the time I started to see signs of sugar loaf I figured that I'd stop for a while take a rest and take on some water I think it was water that most effectively wore down that spiritual barrier and made me appreciate being alive, even if it was by just a small, somewhat undramatic measure. Taking a sip of cold water after hiking through the sunbaked hills all afternoon was like a religious experience, and unlike a lot of things that you develop a tolerance to, quenching

my thirst only felt more satisfying with every dusty mile I covered. It felt incredible to just stop, take a load off, and enjoy a cool sip of water, all while enjoying the peace and tranquility of some of the last untouched areas of wilderness in the country. And then, I saw him. Maybe 50 to 60 yards away. Off the trail and through the pines, I saw a lone figure slowly stepping out from behind a tree trunk. It looked like he was wearing some kind of camouflage outfit, matching pants,

and long-sleeved shirt, and muddy browns and greens. I could also see from that distance that his hair and beard were long, filthy and bushy, so much so that there wasn't much of a face for me to look back at, just a small grubby triangle beneath whiskers and bangs, which did a good job of concealing his eyes too. I knew who it was right away, purely based on the fact that he stood still as a statue and simply stared at me. He knew I was looking right back at him too. He must have known, and it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. It was old Ben. It had to be. And even though I was nervous as hell, I raised an arm and waved at him.

Old Ben watched me as I gave him what was probably the most awkward wave ever than when I was done. He kept on staring for maybe a minute more. But then suddenly, he raised his own arm and returned my awkward wave. But not in his own way. He was mimicking me, kind of, and very crudely too. I literally couldn't tell if he was doing it to make fun of me or, if it was him sort of, I don't know, trying to return my energy. Either way, I didn't take offense, and I was nervous as hell anyway,

so I had no idea what else to do other than just try and talk to him. And so that's what I did. I called out. You're old Ben, right? He didn't say anything at first. Then I saw him shift a little before he yelled back. You're old Ben, right? with the exact same tone and enunciation as I said it.

Again, it didn't overtly sound like he was trying to make fun of me, but the way he mimicked my voice was extremely unsettling. I don't really know if I could properly describe it, but it was almost like he'd forgotten how to talk, and he was mimicking the sounds that I was making because they were all he could remember. I know that might sound crazy, but I honestly don't know how else to describe it.

He wasn't aggressive. He didn't start approaching me or anything. He just mimicked everything I did that was directed at him while staring at me through those curtains of grimy, dark brown hair. He did the same thing when I got up and put away my water bottle and said, I'm going to go now, okay? Only he fully waited until my back was turned and was walking off down the trail before unleashing this creepy, almost squeaky sort of.

I'm going to go now, okay? I was totally expecting him to do it, but it still made me jump just a little to hear it, and when I turned to give him one final wave, I didn't say anything extra, and I didn't look back. As I walked, I kept on looking over my left shoulder to where I'd seen him through the trees, and I think I only went maybe half a mile tops before I unshouldered my pack and retrieved my sick. I grabbed the magazine, checked the chamber, loaded it up, and then pulled back the release, and in an instant, I felt a little more secure. Alan had assured me that he was no threat, but after that first interaction, I definitely

understood why people thought they were in danger whenever they ran into Old Ben. The way he behaved made my skin crawl, and while I was sure that sensation subsided once you got to know him a little, I was very much in the, I don't want to know you at all, can't. when it came to Old Ben and his creepy mimicry. With my stag in my pocket, and still looking over my shoulder every so often, I made it a few more miles up the trail towards Sugarloaf Mountain. The fact that there were multiple camcrowons out there made me think that there'd be at least a handful of modern amenities,

be at a store or some camp showers, or even just a bathroom. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing, but a few clearings marked by some rotten signage. Never again did I make that same mistake, and I always, always properly research my campgrounds from then on. But I still had to learn the hard way on that first trip along the trail, and let me tell you, it sucked. I was tired. I felt gross from being so unwashed, and I was dreading the inevitable squat in the woods that it was going to have to take if I dared drink a cup of instant coffee after dinner. And that was probably one of the lowest points of the hike for me. where I started to kind of question what the hell I was doing.

But eating, giving myself a wet wipe shower, and finally doing my business, after a few days of holding it, really raised my morale. By the time I was setting up my tent for another night of well-earned rest, I felt like I was living the dream. It's amazing what a few chocolate chew bars and a good poop can do for a girl's spirits. But before I planned on crawling into my tent for the night, I figured that I'd sit by my campfire and soak in the atmosphere. of the woods. I hadn't forgotten about the encounter with old Ben, but with my sig at the ready, I felt safe enough to relax, at least as much as it's possible to relax when you're all alone in

the woods at night. As time ticked by and I started to grow more and more at ease, I remember how serene and timeless it all felt. Sitting by the warmth of the fire as the flames danced and crackled, listening to the chirp of the crickets as the deep blue twilight ebbed away in a twinkling darkness took cold above. It felt beautifully primitive, like I was reconnecting with something lost while bringing the pages of my favorite book to life. I remember thinking, so this is what it feels like, and smiling. Then maybe a second or two later, that smile was wiped from my face when I heard the

sound of some shifting in the darkness in front of me. It was clearly and very audibly distinct from the sounds of fire surrounding wildlife. I'd grown used to the crackle and snaps of burning wood or the frenzied scurrying of an animal rushing through the undergrowth. But what I heard in that moment was unmistakable. A slow, deliberate footfall, the sound of foliage gently crunching underfoot. I tensed up, my eyes darting to where I thought the sound had come from.

It was right in front of me, maybe just a few feet into the darkness beyond the orange. The orange glow of the campfire. Ben? Is that you? There was a silence for a few seconds. Then the sound of another soft footfall in the darkness ahead. And I reached for my sig, and my tone got less friendly.

Ben. I said. I don't appreciate unwanted guess. I'm asking you nicely. Leave me alone. I listened for his response, but I only heard crackling of the fire. I asked if he could hear me, sitting up as I gripped my pistol and then hearing him suddenly parrot with a very squeaky...

Can you hear me? Ben! It was one of the weirdest moments of my life. I've never been so relieved and so not relieved at the same time. because while better the devil you know it's still a devil and besides i didn't even really know old ben and all but since he didn't know me either i figured maybe that was the issue he didn't step into the firelight he just stayed out of view in the darkness but i knew that he was still there it was like i could feel him alan had mentioned something about old ben feeling a sense of ownership over the land

and how that was partly the reason why he'd make himself known to people in the way that he did. So I figured maybe just telling him what I was up to would placate him into leaving me alone. Hey, Ben? I said. Hey, Ben? Came the reply instantly this time. I've been out hiking and I don't... I didn't know that you lived here.

I said. But tomorrow I'm heading back the way I came, so you don't have to worry about seeing me around, okay? There was silence. I figured he was about to mimicry right away, but he didn't. He stayed quiet, so I kept talking. I heard you like to pay visits to people, but I'd appreciate it if you just left me alone so I could get some sleep. I got a long day ahead of me, and... That was as far as I got before I heard him say something, or more like wheeze or hiss something

back at me through the darkness, he said, worry about seeing me. Still kind of mimicking the way I said it, but drawing it out very breathy, like he was feeling out the words through saying them. I felt an actual shiver run down my spine from how creepy he sounded as he talked, and the sound alone was enough to silence me for what felt like a full minute after he stopped. I was terrified. I started to think that I could see him, that my eyes were adjusting from staring into the darkness at where I thought he was.

He looked hunched over, body right up against a tree like he had an arm around it, but he was still just a shape in the darkness. Ben, I remember saying, I'm going to head inside my tent now and I'd like you to leave. I have a gun. I really, really don't want you to put me in a position where I feel like I have to use it. I remember feeling this brief swell of bravery after mentioning my pistol. But I was amazed how quickly it was snuffed out by the voices in my own head asking,

What if you miss? What if he's fast? What if you can't? He didn't say anything in response to what, I guess, amounted to my threat. And part of me thinks that's because he understood it. But if he did, he showed no sign of doing so, and as the seconds ticked by in almost complete silence, I realized that there was no way in hell I was about to stand up and turn my back on this guy.

And it was only then that it really hit me just how quiet he'd been during. his approach. He'd gotten within maybe 10 to 15 feet of me, an almost total silence, and I hadn't noticed until it was almost too late to do anything about it. And that's when I realized, or when the thought occurred to me, that Ben was so sneaky and silent because he wasn't wearing any shoes or boots. I told him again that I'd like for him to leave, and then just kind of put my pistol on my lap, holding it, just so he could see it. And then after softly mimicking me, saying, I'd like for you to leave.

I told him again that I'd like for him to leave. Then just kind of put my pistol on my lap, holding it, just so he could see it. Then after softly mimicking me, saying, I'd like for you to leave. I heard him turn. Then, his soft footfalls grew quietier and quieter as he walked off into the darkness. I think I breathed the biggest sigh of relief of my whole entire life as I heard his footsteps fade into silence. And I think if it hadn't been for that guy Alan telling me that old Ben was harmless,

I think I might have been scared enough to just open fire on him. But something kept that thought from my mind and meant all I was, I did was issue a verbal warning. When I was so scared, I think a warning shot might have been more fitting. The way he said worry about seeing me was like he'd picked those words out from what I'd said to him, remembering what they meant, he sent them right back at me as a warning. To this day, I don't know if that's 100% accurate. I have no idea what was going through his mind, but the thought bothered me enough that for at least an hour, I toyed with the idea of packing up and heading back the way I came. The only things that stopped me were the exhaustion,

and knowing that I had my pistol with me so that if Ben decided to make me the first person he ever tried hurting, he wouldn't do so without catching some hurt of his own. I can't remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking up to the sound of tree branches rattling outside my tent. Something was climbing a nearby tree, that much was clear to my half-a-sleep brain as it booted up. The only question was, was it old Ben? And if not, what was it? I sat up, gun in hand, and just listened for a minute or so as whatever it was scrambled higher and higher until it sounded like the noise was coming from right above me.

There was a little more rustling and creaking as whatever it was kept moving through the trees above me and then it stopped. I had a pretty good idea that it wasn't a bear. Bears make bear noises, and you hear their claws scratching against the bark when they climb trees. Heck, it was my first time in the woods, and I knew enough to know that. No, I knew who it was. It was old Ben. And from the way he was moving, he was trying not to wake me. I was scared, very scared, but unlike the first two encounters, I was actually kind of mad during that third one.

So I decided to give him another warning. I told him. Ben, you come near this entrance to my tent. I will shoot you. And there was a pause. And as you can expect, he whispered back. Come near. And I felt that flush of anger again

that made a point of unloading and reloading my pistol, pulling back the slide with a very satisfying, loud ch-chunk, as if to illustrate that I was serious. I wanted to leave. I really did. But the idea of packing up all my stuff while Ben was perched above me in a tree. Well, let's just say that meant that the most attractive option was staying put with my pistol at the ready.

And Ben stayed quiet above me for a few minutes, to the point that I wouldn't even have known that he was there if I hadn't heard him climbing that tree. And so against my better judgment, I decided to lay back down and see if I could rest my eyes. I knew for a fact that if he so much has scratched up there, I'd hear it and it'd put me on edge. So I leaned back down and rest of my head on my little pillow that I'd made out of my pack and felt myself become trapped in this limbo between simultaneously needing to sleep but not being able to.

Every time I even got close to thinking I might be able to pass out, a little voice in my head would say, he's still above you, up in that tree, and he's waiting for you to fall asleep. I immediately opened my eyes very wide, blink them a few times, and take a deep breath, and grip my gun a little tighter. And it went on like that for hours, and thankfully, very little else happened that night. Old Ben stayed up in that tree, I think. keeping quiet for the most part and then he kind of slinked off just before dawn as quietly as he'd arrived but there was one thing that he did maybe an hour or so before he moved on that'll stay

with me for as long as i live at one point i heard something like heavy breathing coming from above me so i was thinking oh god what is he about to do i thought ben might have been whispering something at first but then as he got a little louder i caught just a hint to of melody to his voice, and realized this freak was singing. I couldn't make out 90% of what he sang, but there was one part, I'm guessing, the chorus that kept looping over and over, meaning I slowly got to piece together one of the lyrics to his little song. I say his little song because I later googled these lyrics and nothing matched, so who knows if it's a tune that's been lost to time or something he just made up. But either way,

it creep me the hell out he's saying i'm just a little sleepwalker walking in my sleep and i'm dreaming dreaming dreaming of that girl i'm gonna keep then he moved back to something else i couldn't hear and he kept on going for 20 or 30 minutes maybe before he finally went quiet again and all i could think was I'm not going to be that girl, Ben. And for a moment I debated saying that out loud, but I didn't because I knew exactly what his response would be. He'd say, be that girl, pluck out my own words and use them against me, and I knew it to make my skin crawl if he did, so I just kept my mouth shut. After old Ben climbed out of his tree and crept off into what little remained of that darkness,

I waited until the blue light of dawn started to creep into the forest before unzipping my tent and peeking outside. I wanted to be 110% sure that he was gone, that he wasn't just watching from a distance and waiting for me to let my guard down. I kept my gun handy as I dismantled my tent and packed all my stuff away, checking over my shoulder and scanning my surroundings, maybe every 30 seconds or so. Every time I'd focus on my task for a little too long, that little voice would pop into my head again. He's behind you. He's creeping up behind you. He's going to get you. And the thought would crawl back through my mind that I'd spin my head around and breathe a huge sigh of relief when I saw that I was still alone. And that carried on until

everything was packed away. Then unlike the first couple of days, I walked away from Sugarloaf Mountain with my gun openly in my hand. I didn't give a good goddamn who saw me. Because if anyone objected, I'd just simply make it clear that some inbred Hick Psycho was stalking me, while singing about keeping me. I mean, I'm sorry to be rude. How much am I supposed to take without just getting mad and resenting him? By that point, I kind of didn't believe old creep had never heard anyone. And if that was true, I genuinely believed another night there would have resulted in him

making me his first victim. The hike back towards where my car was parked involved two more nights in the woods. But as soon as Lake Isabella Town came into view, I realized that I had absolutely no desire to risk camping out in the woods when I had some perfectly good motels right there. I figured I could take a shower, spend the night in a soft bed, then catch a bus down the highway a little before getting back on the trail so I could spend my last night near Twin Oaks as I'd planned. Old Ben would have been one hell of a tracker to follow me all that way, but even so, I was out of his territory. So I figured even if I'd hiked,

maybe he'd just have left maybe but in the way that really was just wishful thinking on my part i suppose i'm not going to dress it up like he got into my hotel room and then blue ball y'all by saying but it was all a dream but i did dream about him or rather more of a nightmare i guess i dreamt that i woke up because i heard him singing that creepy little song i'm just a sleepwalker walking in my sleep and I'm dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of that girl I'm going to keep. I woke up startled, exhausted, and disoriented that I really did think old Ben was in the room with me for a second, and I was back in that tent. If there was anyone checked into the room next to me that night, they probably heard one hell

of a scream at around 3 a.m. in the morning, and if that was any of you listening, staying in the Lakeview Motel that night, then I sincerely. apologize for frightening you. And thankfully, I didn't have any creepy nightmares when I slept in my tent at Twin Oaks. I slept rather soundly through that night. But that doesn't mean old Ben wasn't on my mind as I made my campfire and settled in for the evening. In fact, every single time I went hiking since that first faithful trip, memories of old Ben have revisited me every time the evening sun sinks low and the sounds of the crickets and my campfire start to sound a little too relaxing.

Then whenever I do, I always remember that little song that he kind of half whispered and he half sang. I'm just a sleepwalker walking in my sleep, dreaming, dreaming of that girl I'm going to keep. And I think, not me, old Ben, not me. Sometimes we lean on the funniest places for advice. But let's be real. Not everyone's a therapist. The good news?

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In the early hours of March 15th, 2004, the skies over New Mexico were still an inky black as state police officer Justin Hare drove down a dark stretch of the I-40. Except for a few passing vehicles, the highway was quiet, with the approaching dawn signaling that Hare shift was coming to an end. But then at around 4.45 a.m., a call came through for, from his unit's dispatch, requesting his help. According to the dispatcher, a motorist with a flat tire was signaling for assistance. Justin said he'd make his way to the driver's location, then set off in the direction of Tocome Carry.

As Justin arrived at the scene, he observed a white BMW sitting forlornly on the shoulder of the road. His drivers stood nearby as Justin pulled in behind the vehicle, then motion for the driver to approach his cruiser. As the BMW's driver approached Justin's passenger window, the conversation started innocently enough. They discussed the flat tire, the early hour, and the lack of nearby services. Justin, keen to help a citizen in need, offered Smith a ride to the nearest town, where he could find the assistance he required. The driver smiled, thanked him for the offer than before Justin realized what was happening, the BMW driver produced a 9mm pistol and then put a bullet through the unsuspecting officer's neck.

As Justin struggled to both stem the bleeding and unholster his weapon, the driver of the white BMW walked around to his driver's side window and then shot him twice more. He then shoved the dying officer over into the passenger seat, took command of the patrol car, and then began driving down the I-40 with a mortally wounded Justin. and gasping for air next to him. Upon reaching a frontage road, the driver stopped the cruiser. He then dragged Justin's incapacitated body from the passenger seat and then left him to die on a cold, dusty stretch of highway near Tukumkary,

a name derived from the Comanche word, which means ambush. The patrol car was later found crashed in Guadalupe County, and it wasn't long before the driver of the flat town, B.M.W. was identified as Jeremy Alexander Smith. Smith was already wanted in connection with the murder of Phoenicia Mochado 4, the owner of the stolen BMW he was driving, in South Carolina's Marion County. The manhunt began immediately, as a frantic search for Jeremy Smith gripped the entire southwestern United States. His criminal record painted a picture of a man who had been on a collision course with justice for years, a man who had left a trail of devastation wherever he went.

But the shock and horror his actions resulted in were nothing compared to the grief and heartache the local community felt, at losing one of its brightest and most selfless members in such a brutal and senseless fashion. Hours turned to days as the manhunt continued, with local law enforcement agencies remaining on high alert. But in the end, it was an era of unbridled stupidity which brought the hammer down on the fugitive Smith. After stopping at a gas station in Albuquerque, Smith was foolish enough to hand over his actual identification card to the attendant. The clerk recognized him in an instant, but kept her cool and completed the transaction. After that, it was simply a case of tracking the stolen car that he was driving,

and then closing in to make an arrest. But Smith wasn't about to give up that easily. At exactly 7.49 a.m. two deputies of the Bernalillo County Sheriff found themselves sitting in their vehicle outside the address Smith was believed to be sheltering at. Smith apparently spotted the Bernalillo deputies' vehicle because seconds later, their cruisers radio bursts into life with cries of, he's running, he's running westbound. The cruiser zooms down a quiet suburban street, the sky, a haze of grays and blues as the time ticks over to 751. Suddenly, the deputy in the passenger seat asked his partner to halt their cruiser, and as they step out, they are faced with a copper-brown two-story home, complete with a white garage

door. Smith had already taken the lives of both a police officer and a paramedic, but the two deputies remain unfaltering in their pursuit. They scan the two narrow passageways either side of the home before one quietly declares, I can hear him. With pistols drawn, the Two deputies begin their advance, the driver taking the left side of the house, the passenger taking the right. Within seconds, the deputy on the right-hand side of the house spots Smith. Hey, get over here, he calls over to his partner. I got contact. He's behind 3135. Suddenly, a black-clad Smith runs into view before swiftly darting through a small opening in the wall behind the home. Stop running, the deputy cries, as both he and his partner give chase.

The deputy rushes down the passageway, but is forced to slowly round a corner for fear of being ambushed. When the home's backyard proves uninhabited, the deputy grabs his radio and declares he's hopping fences. The deputy peers over a chess-high wall, then attempts to scale it, but as he reaches the top, he hears screaming coming from a neighboring house. This way, the deputy cries, as he rush back out into the street their cruiser is parked on. He's this way, Sarge. As the deputy runs, the distant sound of sirens can be heard, and then suddenly, following a cry of stop police, the sharp report of gunfire can be heard. Shots fired, the deputy cries into his radio. His pace quickening as he rushes to assist his fellow deputies.

Four shots are fired, a second long delay between each mechanical bark. Where's he at? The deputy cries. Then, when his question receives no response, he realizes he might have just heard the sound of a third person losing their life to Smith. Without hesitation, the deputy rushes down another narrow passageway. When he sees his sergeant, alive and unharmed, the relief in his voice is palpable. Sarge, he yells. Where's he at? Both men climb a dividing wall between the yards of two homes, balancing themselves precariously

in the hopes of spotting their fugitives. of suspect. Civilians begin emerging from their homes, alarmed at the sound of gunfire. The two deputies tensely order the innocent back into their homes. A minute passes. Both officers climb over another adjoining wall. Then, in a brief but surreal moment of stark contrast, the two deputies, whose very lives are under threat, run past a bright pink children's playhouse. Yet just as they do, the sound of a woman yelling in a neighboring yard demands their attention. He's right here, one of the deputy's shouts, as he spots the cop killer Jeremy Smith. His voice burns with fear and anger. Stop, he yells. Stop moving. But Smith pays

no heed. He turns, then begins running away from the furious deputy who opens fire on the fleeing killer. In the chaos, at least one of his bullets appears to have struck Smith as following a swift pursuit, he is found lying among the dirt and gravel of an unfinished pathway, having collapsed after attempting to scale a wall. You ain't moving, the deputy roars. Now roll over, roll over. Smith appears to cry out in pain before claiming, who ain't got nothing on me. Yet an instant later, a civilian appears to yell from his window off camera.

I got a gun right here, he just threw it over. As Smith is set upon by the two deputies, he once again cries out in pain. He begs them for mercy, claiming his arm is in an unbearable amount of pain. One of the deputies, aware that Smith has already murdered a police officer who tried helping him, tell Smith to shut up. Smith then claims I can't breathe and then proceeds to take a deep breath before crying out in pain again. From one of Smith's pockets, the deputy retrieves a green-colored packet of what appears to be sick. cigarettes, then asked his name. Smith refuses to answer the question and simply replies,

I ain't got nothing. But after the deputy retrieves his wallet, his identification is confirmed. Jeremy Alexander Smith, it reads, The deputies roll Smith over and sit him up. Blood trickles from a wound to his mouth. While a bullet wound to his left arm gives the dark fabric of his hoodie a glossy, gory sheen. Please, please, please, please, Smith, begs the officers, desperate for the kind of mercy he himself refused to bestow on both paramedic

Phoenicia Machado 4 and police officer Justin Hare. Two people who dedicated their lives to helping others. The legal aftermath was swift and decisive. Facing federal charges, including carjacking resulting in death and discharging a firearm during a crime of violence, Smith was eventually charged with several counts. The weight of the evidence, including dash cam and body cam footage left little room for doubt. In January of 2025, he pled guilty, accepting a sentence of life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. The courtroom was filled with law enforcement officers there to honor Justin Hare, a man who had uttered his last words offering help to the man who would take his life. His family, particularly his parents,

Jim and Terry Hare, spoke of the void left in their lives. of the grandchildren who would grow up without their father and of the community that had lost a true protector may he and all other officers who make the ultimate sacrifice while heeding the call of duty rest in deep and everlasting peace My daughter's a big fan of your YouTube channel, and after doing a bit of listening myself, I reckon that I've got a story that you might be interested in. My daughter's heard this story about a hundred times by this point, but I reckon she'll get a kick out of hearing you retell it in your own inimitable style.

It took ages to write, so give it a read and let me know what you think. I was born in October of 1959 at the Oxford Street Maternity Hospital in Liverpool to a Jamaican mom and an English dad. I had quite a happy childhood. My dad was a docker, so he brought home a decent wage, and my mom worked two days a week as a seamstress. And so all in all, we were quite well off, and I've got a lot of happy memories of being a kid.

But then in 1969, less than a week after we all gathered around the telly to watch the yanks put a man on the moon, my mom sat me down at the dinner table and told me dad wasn't coming home. There had been an accident on the docks, he'd been hurt, and after they took him to hospital, he'd sadly gone to heaven to be with Nana and Granddad, and it wrecked us. Mom couldn't make the same age my dad had, so we had to move out of the nice house we had and into a much smaller flat. She struggled with the grief and drank a lot to numb the pain, so she was either at work all day or at the Caribbean center getting drunk until they kicked her out. And I don't blame her. She'd lost her soul, mate, but it left me and my sister to fend for ourselves in a lot of ways.

And don't get me wrong. She always made sure that there was food on the table, but the hard truth of it is that, probably from the age of about 12, I was brought up on the streets by the blokes that ran them. By the time my dad passed, the youth culture in Liverpool was becoming less and less about pints and siggies, and more about pills and ganja. Not ecstasy pills, mind you, more like uppers and downers and all of that. But while the pints were legal, the pills in the gonga weren't, and there was a lot of money to be made trading them if you could stomach the lifestyle. And by By the time I was 15, so around late 74, 75, a lot of the lads around Toxteth, or Liverpool 8, as we called it, had graduated to selling heroin and cocaine, not just Gondja, since there

was loads more money to be made in that, and the networks expanded massively. Some of my old mates from back then used to run bags for a few quit on the weekends, and over time, things got worse and worse. Just a few months before my 20th birthday, the Toxteth riots of 1981 had the south-central portion of Liverpool in flames. The police took a pretty strong battering, too. They had to call in riot squads from other cities because they were so outnumbered by the rioters. And afterwards, parts of Toxteth were basically no-go areas for police, as next to lawless as it's possible to get in a so-called civilized society. crime rose employment fell the drug scene exploded and if you wanted to make something of yourself

you needed to join a gang or firm as we called them back then and so that's what i did by 1989 i was working with a crew that moved drugs all over england scotland and wales the drug scene had gotten bigger and bigger as the years went by with huge demand for the likes of MDMA tablets and crack cocaine Then, thanks to Liverpool's docks, shipping in weed and pills from Amsterdam was basically as easy as ordering an Amazon package these days. Once you'd build up a relationship with someone over in the dam, you phoned them up, placed your order, then within a few days, your ship came in. My partner, Jimmy, and I, used to take home 150 quid for every day that we were on the job, when back then that was megabucks. and we work six days a week all year round except Christmas. It was boss money, but we had to work hard for it.

Jimmy and I worked for a crew ran by a bloke named Jobo, and by 89, we'd been working together for about 18 months. We didn't really do gang names or anything like that, not like the Crips or the Bloods over in America. Back then, everyone knew who worked with who, so it was all your firm and my firm, and not the bloody sharks and the Jets, like some Camp Broadway musical. There weren't any proper job descriptions either, not like the mafia.

We didn't have enforcers or capos or concieres or nothing like that. You just had your boys and your boss, simple. So when it comes to describing what we did all day, Jimmy and I did a bit of everything. We moved gear, drugs, collected debts, mostly amicably, and did any small jobs that. needed doing, be it giving people lifts or dropping off cooking supplies, but we didn't have any kind of official title. We were just George and Jimmy. We didn't need anyone else because

our reputations preceded us. Actually, I suppose you could have assigned us each a sort of title or role, something that really summed up what we did, because when it came to collecting cash from people that owed it, I played the good cop, and Jimmy played the bad cop. Jimmy was the cousin of the fellow we worked for, Jabbo, and he was a complete and utter psychopath. Half the reason I've been selected to work with him was as a kind of governor, someone who'd stop him from going over the edge whenever he got into one of his moods. The main reason our debt collection always went smoothly is because Jimmy was there, and all I'd have to say is, look, mate, it's him or me. So we're going to make the bank, or you're going with him? They nearly always pay up, and the one or two

times they didn't, Jimmy got to cement our reputation even further, and he loved it too. And I mean it when I say he was a psycho. These days, they'll call you a psycho if you go for a jog before work in the mornings. Jimmy, on the other hand, liked jogging on people's faces. He genuinely enjoyed violence, so I never had to partake of any myself. But even with me having seen my fair share of blood growing up, the things Jimmy did with the stuff of nightmares. But the The violence was only directed towards people who stole, people who owed money, or people who misbehaved in other more minor ways. Conflict with other firms just didn't really happen because everyone stuck to their own turf

and there were enough customers to go around. But that all changed toward the end of the 80s, and the surge in demand for the big money makers like heroin and crack meant that there was money flowing around like never before. And it won't bore you with the exact ins and outs of it, or this will end. end up being a novel, but in 1989, there was a major change of leadership in one of the neighboring firms. This new boss was very ambitious, too, and in so many words, thought the firm should let the market decide who buys from who rather than set territories. He starts sending his dealers onto Jabbo streets, Jabo being our boss, remember, to poach his customers, and

then when Jabbo finds out, he sends me and Jimmy out looking for the dealers to give them a firm, but polite talking to. But they were not open to any sort of discussion or criticism. And when they turned to threats and insults, Jimmy flipped his lid and battered the pair of them. He didn't just battered them either. He pulled the one lad off of his bike and then used his own front tire to turn his face into a mess of blood and black smudges. And that was one of the few times. I felt very little sympathy for the person on the receiving end of Jimmy's temper.

We didn't think, though, that that had start a war. The new boss of the neighboring firm wouldn't take kindly to having his dealer beaten, but honestly, there was a bit of a mutual understanding when it came to younger lads getting lippy with their elders. We thought the new boss would approach Jabbo, maybe with an apology, but definitely a demand for money to get his boy's teeth fix, because good God, did he need it. Instead, the neighboring firm ran up to Jabbo's living room, window one night and then blasted the glass in with a shotgun. Jabo's two kids were in there at the

time watching Tully. But because they were sitting on the floor in front of it, the shotgun pellets missed them, and they only got a few cuts and splinters after being showered in glass. That didn't matter at all, though, because Jabo and Jimmy were livid. We went out looking for anyone even remotely associated with the now enemy firm, but we couldn't find a soul. It was like they'd all vanished into thin air. We then got word that, basically, the lad that got his face smashed with his own bike tire had gone completely rogue and was on the hunt for Jimmy's family in particular, which obviously meant Jabbo's family too. We had a fine tire face, as I'll call him from now on, before he found any of us, and unfortunately, he found Jabbo's sister first. He didn't kill her,

Thank God. But she ended up in hospital in a serious condition, and if you thought Jabbo and Jimmy were angry before, that was nothing on what they were like after their sister-slash-cous was shot. They were bloodthirsty. That's the best way I can describe it. But Tyreface had been clever and had moved all of his families somewhere secret to keep them safe while the war was on. He was pretty decent at hiding himself, too. We were looking high and low, offering all kinds of money for sightings of him, but he was like a ghost. But that couldn't last forever. He was always going to slip up eventually, and when he did, we were going to make him pay for it.

Jimmy and I waited, and we waited, and then we waited some more, running business at basically half capacity while we hunted for Tireface. Then at about noon one day, I got a call from Jimmy saying that I had to be ready to go by 2 p.m. Sharp, and he sounded frantic, and this might sound a bit mad, but he sounded frightening. happy too. So I knew what was going on or had a decent enough idea. Someone had either spotted tire face someplace or he was expected somewhere and we were going to be there when he arrived. Jimmy was mental, but he wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to talk about what we were going to do, especially not in his car, which for those of you that don't know is an ideal place for the

police to put a listening device since so much chat goes on during car journeys. We were all right talking football, or just about this and that. But since this car journey was strictly business, we stayed quiet for almost the entire drive. It was a long one, too, and I realized that we were heading out of Liverpool quite quickly. We drove until we were on the outskirts of Manchester, and then Jimmy handed me a road map of the area, and then told me to find an address that he had written on a piece of paper. I remember thinking, bloody hell, this lad's run off to Manchester, and Jabos still had him tracked down.

But that's what it was like working for people with those kinds of connections. Sometimes it was slapstick. Other times it was like being in a spy film. But you learn not to ask too many questions. People who keep their mouth shut don't just learn a lot. They live a long time as well. But anyway, we find the address. Then Jimmy tells me to get behind the wheel before he gets out

and starts walking up the pathway of this nice little cottage-looking place. that looked like it was worth a few quid. He walked up to the front door, knocked on it, then pulled a balaclava over his face, and barged his way inside when some poor old deer opened up. Maybe a minute later, he reappeared again,

but he didn't have tire face with him. Under his arm, being carried like a rolled-up carpet, was a little girl, no more than about five or six years old. He basically throws this poor girl, girl in the back seat, climbs in next to her and then screams at me to drive. After that, it was over to some old abandoned farm buildings near St. Helens, but not before we'd stop somewhere to give Jabbo a call to let him know that we had a hostage.

I thought the idea of taking a hostage was to get Tireface to come out of hiding, and I think maybe at first that was actually the plan. But then at one point, Jimmy drove off to get some food, and when he came back, he was in a terrible state. Jimmy's cousin, slash Jabbo's sister, who had been shot in the back, had contracted the superbug Mercer while in the hospital. She'd been fighting with it for about a week, but then that same afternoon we kidnapped Tyreface's kid, she went into cardiac arrest and passed away. Jabo and Jimmy were devastated, so in response, Jabo gave Jimmy the order to kill Tireface's daughter. But he wasn't just going to kill her.

He was going to cut her head off so Jabbo could lash it into tie her face his lap whenever he finally got his hands on him. We had this girl's hands and legs tied and she'd actually calmed down a bit because we'd promise to feed her before taking her back to mummy and daddy. But when Jimmy walked back into the old cow shed, instead of a plastic bag with three chippy dinners in it, he had nothing but a rusty-looking hacksaw on his hand. He looked ill. sweaty, shaky, eyes wide and bulging, and I knew what he had been told to do without having to ask him, and all I could think to ask was, Jimmy, what are you doing? He didn't even look at me, let alone say anything. He just kept on taking these slow, careful steps towards the little girl, and I could see him trying to summon the will to do as he'd been

told. I've been carrying a gun with me ever since the war started, and That day was no exception, so when I pulled it out, Jimmy thought it was me silently saying, let's put her out of her misery first, so she doesn't suffer too much. But that wasn't what was about to happen. That was never what was about to happen. And the look on his face when I pointed the gun at him is something I'll never forget. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He couldn't believe I'd even dare to do something like that.

It was his turn to understatedly ask. what are you doing George but as stunned as he looked in that moment it was nothing on how he looked after what I said next I told him to put the saw down and step away from the girl and that's when Jimmy stated out loud the Jabbo had told him to kill her because his cousin Jabbo's sister had died that same afternoon the girl had to die blood for blood I told him that wasn't going to happen and repeated my order to put it down. He took a step toward me. I took one back,

and then I told him to put that down and to get on the floor because I was an undercover police officer from Maryside Police, and he was under arrest for kidnap and conspiracy to murder. And for a second, Jimmy looked like he was about to pass out.

His mouth flopped open and closed like a caught fish on her. riverbank, and his arm, which had previously been pointing that hacksaw at me, slowly dropped to his side. He asked me if I was joking. I told him no, that I wasn't messing around and that his only chance to avoid arrest was to get back in the car, and F off back to Liverpool. I knew I wasn't physically capable of arresting him, but Jimmy wasn't about to turn down

his get-out-of-jail-free card, not while I had a gun pointed at him. After he left, I ran over open fields hand in hand with that little girl until we found a homeowner who had let me use their phone. Now I suppose here's the part where I addressed the, so that's what I did, line in reference to joining a gang. I did join a gang, a massive one in fact, and we called ourselves the Maryside Police Force. I started to think about joining after the riots because I saw all kinds of people who weren't part in the Toxteth community, flooding that area to take advantage.

Don't get me wrong. The police were very heavy-handed with the youth at the time, so I can't forgive the anger. But in the aftermath, you had one of the biggest and scummiest drug dealers in the country making himself out to be a savior of the community, all while he was poisoning it with heroin. And it made me sick, and a new, my dear old dad would have been ashamed to see Toxteth take such a dive. So instead of just leaving, like a lot of people did, I decided to stick around to help fix a two-tier problem that I thought was happening. Problems in the community, and problems in the force that policed it. I'd like to think that I put a dent in both during my long career in the police service.

But after the incident with Jimmy and the little girl, those dents weren't going to be in Liverpool, that's for sure. I transferred to London after almost everyone in Jabbo's crew, as well as tired. Face was sent down for crimes of varying severity and spent the rest of my career working my way up the ladder of the Mets undercover department. I helped oversee some incredible investigations in that time, some more successful than others, but I never forgot the day that I betrayed Jimmy and saved that little girl's life as a result. And I'll never forget because I actually kept a little momentum of that incident and it came in the form of the mitigation statement read out by Tireface's solicitor.

following his conviction for attempted murder. Through his lawyer, Tireface mostly said that he was sorry for everything he'd done, but also issued a personal thank you to the undercover police officer who saved his daughter's life. He didn't know who that undercover officer was, and maybe he's since figured it out, who knows. But knowing he appreciated it so much that he'd thank a policeman before being sent to prison, it honestly meant the world to me. And it still does, even all these years later. And I visit Liverpool every so often.

Sometimes I'll go and see old colleagues, and other times I'll stop by Anfield to watch Liverpool play. I miss the place. It'll always be my home. But it was also worth giving up if it meant giving an innocent little girl a chance to live. Hi, Undisclosed listeners, Rabia here. Colin and I are getting ready to launch the brand new season of Undisclosed Toward Justice, the state versus Amanda Lewis. The new season drops September 1st, so stay subscribed, find us on your favorite podcast apps,

and check out the trailer for this upcoming season. 9-1-1. I need an ambulance. What's on, ma'am? My daughter filling the pole when she's not braiding. On August 8, 2007, the small town of Esto, Florida, was rocked by a 911 call, in which Amanda Lewis said her seven-year-old daughter had drowned in their above-ground pool. My assumption was she went over the side of the pool, went down, hid her head, and came back up.

But the case soon took a sharp turn when Amanda's six-year-old son spoke to the police that night. But is it possible? What does that mean? Drown. But is it possible that this is a case where there's more or less than meets the eye? What I'm about to tell you is the single most most traumatic event of mine and my ex-girlfriend's life. I'm writing this of my own volition, but I've had to seek permission from her

in order to actually send this over with the intention of it being on broadcast. Her number one condition was that I tell the absolute truth about what happened and that whoever I send it over to is respectful in their reading of it. That being said, I would really appreciate it if you abided by her wishes. It would save me a heck of a lot of trouble if you'd did. And so with all of that out of the way, I guess it's on with a story. In 2011, me and Holly, my then-girlfriend, not a real name, decided to head out on a day's hike in Northern California's Syed Valley. Syed Valley is situated along the Klamath River, near State Route 96,

and is surrounded by the Klamath Mountains, with the lower Devil's peaks to the north and the Marble Mountains wilderness to the south. The valley is always. home to a few hundred people at the most, with homes and cabins spread along the many creeks and roads, some of which are only accessible by dirt tracks, which wind for many miles off the main roads. Another thing about Syed Valley, and something I kind of wish that I knew before we visited, is that it was home to something called the Free State of Jefferson Movement. From what I can recall, the movement started when local settlers found a bunch of gold and then wanted to form their own state outside of California and Oregon,

so that they didn't have to pay taxes on it. I suppose that all sounds innocent enough at first. I mean, this country was founded on no taxation without representation. But then after the Civil War, the valley became home to all kinds of folks fixated on rebellion and anarchy, and not the innocent teenage kind. Although those first fugitive Confederates and other secessionists had all passed by the night, The Syed Valley retained its unwritten status as a place where outsiders and outlaws would retreat to or hide out in.

And I, for one, at least in my own way, can confirm that's true. Holly and I arrived in the valley in the early afternoon. Then, after a bite to eat, we hiked up into the hills, intent on walking a looping trail that would lead us up near Kangaroo Mountain and Red Butte, and then back down towards the town. at first it was everything we hoped it would be it was a beautiful afternoon the air was crisp and sweet with a scent of pine resin and we were both enthusiastic over finding ourselves a new and very healthy hobby it also gave us time to actually talk and i mean really talk because we were both in full-time employment by then and with other varying commitments opportunities for quality time together were becoming fewer and further between about three 30 people we were panting our way up a very gentle slope, still having fun, but really starting to feel the burn when we came across something unexpected. We came across smaller connecting trails every so often. Sometimes we'd explore them and sometimes not. But in this one instance, we must have

walked for maybe 100 meters before we came across an isolated log cabin, nestled in a small clearing and partially obscured by a thicket of bushes. It looked very quaint, almost picturesque, if not for the out-of-place truck parked haphazardly in front of it. Its driver's side door was wide open, as was the door of the cabin itself, and as we got closer, a man emerged from inside, walking at quite a very brisk pace. He was of average build, late 30s at the most, and when he saw us, he smiled and waved. "'Morning, folks,' I remember him saying, "'you two were quite far off the beaten path, ain't you?'

He seemed friendly enough, but his eyes scanned us a little too much. I told him that we were just out enjoying a hike, trying to keep the conversation light, and for a minute or two, we went back and forth about how nice the weather had been, among other very small talk. Then when I said something to the effect of, "'Nice talking to you, but we're going to be hitting the trail again.' He asked if we'd like to come inside for a cup of coffee.

We very politely declined, saying how we were trying to stick to his schedule, so we wouldn't have to drive back home at night. But the man wouldn't hear that. He walked down the cabin's dirt path towards us, saying stuff like, Ah, come on now, it's no trouble at all. Not every day you get to meet someone out here, and you two look like you'd do with a pick-me-up. Again, we declined, but...

He became insistent, and instead of feeling welcoming, his insistence suddenly felt almost desperate, and as his tone shifted, so did the atmosphere. I glanced at Holly, seeing the same unease in her eyes, then hand in hand we began slowly backing away. But no sooner had we taken a couple of steps, the man reaches behind his back and produces a gun. Then in a voice that was sharp and threatening, he told us, Get inside. Now. We hesitated, frozen to the spot with fear, but when he raised his gun and pointed it at us, we realized that we didn't have much of a choice but to do as he said.

As we walked toward the cabin, he kept the gun trained on us, and then I remember as he got closer to the door, he yelled, hurry up! We'll be here any minute. After he slammed and locked the door behind us, Holly asked who he meant by they. She sounded so scared, but he completely ignored her question before he hurted us into a corner and told us to sit on the floor. It was a stupid move, but I tried to show a modicum of courage by reiterating Holly's question. I said something like, hey, hey, she has to you a question. Then in an instant, he'd went from peering out the window to rushing over to me to smash the handle of his gun into my face. Holly's scream was gut-wrenching, but the man barked at her to shut up and for us to stop asking questions, and I felt blood running down my cheeks.

The impact around my cheekbone burned, and Holly asked if she could help stop the bleeding to which that guy replied, What's the point? We're all going to die soon here anyway. Might as well let it bleed. She tried to ignore what he said, but I could tell that it got to her. I could see the fear and helplessness in her eyes and it tore me up. The man went back to peering out the cabin's window, twisting around to glare at us whenever we so much has moved or talked. Whole minutes stretched out to feel like hours as I simultaneously lied to Holly, saying that we were going to be fine while scanning the room for escape routes, weapons, anything that may help in saving our lives, but they couldn't see anything. There was one way in and one way out, and if the guy got so much as a whiff that I was going to charge him with a candlestick or a piece of chopped log, he was going to gun me down before I even touched him. After that, it became a case of just trying not to panic, but the weight was agonizing.

Every time he turned around and pointed the gun at us, I thought that that was it, that we were going to die. But each time, instead of pulling the trigger, he'd tell us to shut up, because he couldn't think. straight with us whispering amongst ourselves. And I think we sat there for maybe an hour. I'm not 100% sure, but in that time, Holly and I worked out that that they, the man spoke of, was probably the cops. Then when we heard the sound of distant rotor blades, our suspicions were confirmed when the guy seemed to tense up, look out of the window, and mutter, they're here to himself.

I think in any other situation the sound of the cops might have been relief, and I guess that it was in some small way. But as those rotor blades got closer and we eventually started to hear what sounded like approaching vehicles, the guy turned to us and said, if they come in here, you're dead. You better help make sure that that doesn't happen. We agreed, but only out of terror because any chance that we got to make it out of there or help the cops, we knew that we had to take it. Our very lives depended on it. As the sense, The sound of the helicopter got really close, we realized that Heli was right above us. And then not long after, we started to hear shouted commands outside as some sort of

SWAT team disembarked from their vehicles. The guy holding us prisoner got right up to the window and started yelling, I got hostages. Come any closer in the dead. All he got in response was someone calling out over a loudspeaker, saying it was the police and he was to come out with his hands up. The man walked over to us, grabbed Holly, then dragged her towards the window while screaming, Show your face! Show your face! I want them to see it when I blow it off!

She screamed and cried as he kept the end of the gun jammed in her face, and all I could do was keep telling her, it's going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay, baby. The guy kept yelling out the window about how he was going to shoot Holly. And I'm guessing the cops started to back off or whatever once they saw her because he started laughing, yelling stuff like, That's right. That's what I thought. Back off. Go on. Go on. Get. He dragged Holly back to the corner that I was in, then backed off quickly with the gun pointed at us. He started yelling something about how we were going to be his human shields of the cops burst in. But then the sound of something going on outside,

cut him off and he ran to the window again. We obviously couldn't see what was going on outside, but we could see that it made the guy furious. It sounded like a cop was shouting orders. Then the guy aimed his gun at the glass of the window and started firing on the cops outside. He fired until a few of their own bullets smashed into the window frame next to him, then he retreated, turned the gun on me, and told me to kneel in the center of the room. I know this might sound like the understatement of the century, but I really did not want to comply. He was telling me to kneel, with my hands behind my back, like some kind of execution stance, and since I knew that was probably the final step between me and the Almighty, I knew I had to do anything I could

to prevent or to delay it. But that was the thing that made me feel sick, that made my legs feel like they were turning to jelly when I tried to stand. There was nothing I could do to prevent it other than outright refuse, in which case I was no use to him anymore, and I was a dead man. It was like one of those catch-22s, damned if you do, damned if you don't. So I did what he asked, told Holly I loved her, and tried to prepare myself for what was to come. I somehow managed to make it from the corner to the center of the room without my legs collapsing under me. Then after I kneeled, I felt the guy pushed the end of the gun against the back of my head.

He then started to scream at the door of the cabin. You come in here, I'll kill him, you hear me, I'll blow his head off. It was about then that I realized the cops must have been advancing on the door of the cabin and the final few moments before they burst inside were going to be the final few moments of my life. It might sound ultra morbidly weird, but I became hyper-fixated on the goal of not pissing my pants in front of Holly before I died. I myself find it bizarre in retrospect, but it's true.

I thought something along the lines of, I didn't do anything to save her, so please God at least let me go out with some dignity. I squeezed my eyes shut as the screaming from inside and outside got louder and more intense, grinding my teeth together as the guy pushed the gun harder into the back of my skull. And then suddenly, there was a bang, then another, then another, and I fell forward onto the ground of the cabin, quite certain that I was dead, my ears ringing. But obviously, I wasn't. It just took me a minute to realize it, thanks to the debilitating terror, I was absolutely in the grip of.

And when I finally opened my eyes and looked up, the man was on the floor trying to suck air into his lungs. But thanks to the bullets put there by the SWAT team as they burst in, he was having, a really hard time doing so. I remember just staring at him for a moment, watching him slowly die as the sound came back to my ears. Not in a sort of, ha-ha you got yours, buddy, but just kind of in complete disbelief. One moment, he'd been the master of my life. The next, I was watching him breathe his last breath.

One of the SWAT said something like, You okay? You hurt? And I was so sure that I replied to him verbally, but he ended up tapping me on the shoulder sort of like, Hey, you hear me? Because I must have just carried on watching my would-be murderer gargling on his own blood lost in some total days. And miraculously, and this is obviously aside from the cut on my face,

neither me nor Holly were hurt and after the SWAT team cleared the area surrounding the cabin we were driven back into town and given a statement and then we were free to leave it took a while before i felt like i could drive again so i sat there leaning over from the driver's sea trying to console Holly as she alternated between gentle sobs and very ugly whales i cried too i won't lie out of this weird mixed of trauma, but mainly relief. We made it, but I think we both knew it was something we'd carry with us for the rest of our lives. When we were ready, we got back on the road and we didn't stop until we were back in Reading. I stayed overnight in her apartment, wrapped up in blankets, just feeling sort of numb after such a horrifying and very surreal experience. We stayed together for a few years after that and then broke up in early 2014. It was very amicable, and although we both lived in different cities, we make an effort to keep in touch and have the occasional catch-up via FaceTime. We don't just catch up either.

We always talk about what happened that day in Syed Valley. I don't really make a point to do so either. It just inevitably comes up throughout the natural course of our conversations. I never got into the whole therapy thing, but Holly did. And even she said talking to someone that understands is a thousand times better than talking to someone who, no matter how many diplomas they have on the wall, wasn't there to see it and wasn't there to feel it. I'm a big fan of the channel, so I figured I'd do my part in contributing to the craziness. I've been a cop for just over six years now, and I've seen some crazy stuff in that time. But only one call has been enough to give me nightmares, and it was this one.

In November of 2023, it was just past midnight, and my partner and I were working a quiet shift when our radio suddenly cracked a life. Dispatch relayed a welfare check request. Someone had called in, worried about his former girlfriend. He gotten some troubling text from her, things that were extremely out of character but enough to raise red flags. And my partner and I took the call. The address was a small apartment complex,

one of those old brick buildings that seemed better days. We grabbed the exes' phone from dispatch and headed out. When we pulled up at a row, Around 12.45 a.m., the street was completely silent except for the hum of our cruiser's engine, and the apartment was on the second floor, Unit 2B. But there were no lights visible from the street, which kind of struck me as odd, given the situation. If she was texting her ex, you'd think that she'd be awake and maybe have a lamp or the TV on or something, but there was nothing. We climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.

Police, open the door, man. We're here to check on you. nothing no footsteps no muffled tv just silence i knocked again harder this time pounding with the side of my fist and still nothing daniels my partner suggested that we call her the ex-boyfriend had provided her numbers so i dialed it from my department issued cell it rang once and twice and then picked up i heard breathing on the other end it was faint but it was there before the line went dead but here's the thing. We heard the phone ring from inside, faint but audible through the window to the left of the door, and there was no question.

She was in there. Ma'am, this is the police. I shouted, leaning toward the window. We know you're inside. Open the door. We're doing a welfare check. There was no response at first. But then I caught a slight sound. I was very slurred, garbled speech like someone trying to talk through a mouthful of cotton.

and it was enough to justify, in my mind, a forced entry. We're breaking the door down if you don't open up. I warned, giving her one last chance. We want to help, but we also don't want to overreact and potentially damage property or hurt somebody behind the door. But then seconds later, I hear a click as the deadbolt turned. The door didn't swing open. She'd unlocked it, but let it for us to open.

I remember Daniels and I exchanged this look, and our hands were on our holsters, and then I pushed the door open with my boot. And what we saw stopped us completely cold. Standing there, swaying gently back and forth was a young woman. She was stick then and looked to be in her 20s, stark naked, dripping wet, and pale as a ghost. Her skin had that bluish tinge that you see in hypothermia cases, and her hair. Her hands were a mess, and blood dripping from cuts on her palms and fingers. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and she was mumbling something incoherent. Then the next thing, the smell hit us.

Metallic, like old blood, but mixed with something stale and damp. Ma'am, are you all right? I asked, stepping forward, and she didn't respond, just kept swaying, barely holding herself. Call a bus, I told Daniels. bus being the slang for an ambulance and he nodded and got on the radio while i tried to assess her i asked her question after question but got no answer just more slurring of words and her condition seemed critical pale cold bleeding and disoriented i grabbed a blanket from the couch nearby and draped it over her shoulders trying to keep her warm until eMS arrived and she didn't resist didn't even seem to notice

once the girl was scared the first thing we noticed when we started looking around the room was the candles flickering flames were dotted all over the place the living room the bedroom even a couple in the bathroom too

I flipped a light switch on but I got nothing I tried another and it was dead none of them worked but there was no time to figure out if it was a power outage or a blown fuse

because we had to secure cure the scene and make sure that she was the only one here. My partner pulled out his flashlight and I followed. The beams cut through the darkness and revealed a scene that still gives me chills thinking about it. Words scrawled in what looked like blood, her blood, I think, judging from her hands. And I remember seeing the words, seven-headed serpent in the bedroom and then just disobserves in the bathroom. And the handwriting was shaky and uneven, like she'd been trembling when she wrote it. And we moved to the bathroom, following the trail of candles, and that's where we saw the tub.

It was filled with water, dark, murky brown water, like it had been stained with old blood or something else. And the surface was still, but you could tell that the girl had been sitting at it, likely for hours based on the X's timeline when he last heard from her. The water was cold to the touch and the blood, settled into a sort of thick, congealed layer toward the bottom. How she was even alive, I honestly couldn't tell you. The blood loss, hypothermia, she honestly should have been a goner. EMS arrived within ten minutes, thank God. Paramedics rushed in, took one look at her and got to work. They wrapped her in thermal blankets and started an IV and loaded her onto a stretcher,

and she was still mumbling, incoherent as they wheeled her out. I remember they said, overdose, severe blood loss, and hypothermia, and she's lucky that you got here when you did. With a girl en route to the hospital, Daniels and I finished our sweep of the area and no one else was in the apartment and there were no signs of a struggle or forced entry, just the candles, the blood, and those goddamn words. We secured the scene, and then a detective was called in to take over. This wasn't just a welfare check anymore. It was a potential crime scene, or at the very least, a mental health crisis that needed more than a patrol response.

And back at the station, I wrote up my report, but all of those images stuck with me. The flickering candles, the tub of dark water, and the bloody words. I later googled them, and this was what came up for the seven-headed serpent. The seven-headed serpent in Sumerian religion was one of the heroes slain by Ninerta, patron god of Lagash, ancient Iraq. Its body was hung on the shining crossbeam of Ninerta's chariot. It took me a little longer to figure out what Dis observes might have meant, and I thought that it might have been a name. But a little later, I found this about a place called Dis. In Dante Allegheri's The Divine Comedy, the city of Disse encompasses the sixth through the ninth

circles of hell. Moaded by the River Sticks, the fortified city encloses the whole of lower or nether hell. And I've seen a lot on this job, domestic disputes, overdoses, bar fights, but this was different. It was very unsettling, like we walked into something bigger than just a bad breakup or a rough night. I don't know what drove her to that point, and I don't know if she'll pull through, but I do know this. If her ex hadn't called, if we hadn't gotten there when we did, I doubt that she would have made it. A few years back, a few years back, a few friends and I decided on some hiking and a night of camping on the Pacific Crest Trail. And although I remember that weekend vividly, a part of me wishes that I could erase it from my memory.

It was meant to be an easygoing day out on the trails, just me and two friends setting off after having planned it for weeks. And that first day was as close to perfection as you could get. We were excited to hang out, have a few beers, and escape the grind of everyday life for a few days. We spent hours walking, sharing laughs, stories, and the occasional friendly friends. argument over who the goaded 49ers quarterback was. And then, when we found a decent spot to camp, near enough to a water source, a shallow but fast-moving stream, we pitched our tents and got to work making a campfire. While the boys were working on the fire, I decided to head down to the stream to freshen up. And to put it bluntly, it had been a very sweaty day, so I took off my shirt,

watch and chain, and rinsed off my shirt in the water, and then used it as a kind of washcloth to rinse off the top half in my junk. I was maybe 99% sure that I'd slid my wash into my pocket, but when I got back to camp and reached into my pocket, it wasn't there. I retraced my steps back to the stream, keeping my eyes glued on the ground the whole time, but I couldn't find it anywhere. It wasn't like an expensive watch or anything,

so it didn't ruin the trip for me, but I was still kind of wondering, huh, where the hell did my watch go? before eventually deciding the strap must have caught on the edge of my pocket before it dropped into the water while I was leaning over into the stream. I mean, it sucks, but that's life, right? Now anyway, the rest of our trip went smoothly. Nothing happened that night.

Then the next morning, we packed up and walked back down the trail towards where my friend's car was parked. We get right to the end of the trail, less than a hundred yards or so from the parking lot, and one of my friends sees something hanging from a brand. just up ahead of us he said something out of the blues sort of like dude what is that then I looked up and saw it it was my watch tied loosely around the branch of a tree just sort of hanging there for all to see the friend who saw it turned back and said something like dude can you imagine if that was the one you lost but when he saw it look a surprise and elation on my

face he realized the same thing i did that it actually was my watch and that some kind of stranger had left it there on the off chance that its owner would spot it upon leaving the trail we're thinking dude what are the chances and then a second later my two friends are stepping out of the way so i can take a running jump to grab my watch off the branch because it was maybe a foot or two above head height then a hop's given a jump later, I'm grabbing my watch in mid-air and pulling it down off the flimsy-ish branch that held it, but then the second my fingers touched it, I knew something was wrong. After I landed down on my feet, I immediately let go of the watch and watched it drop to the ground. It was covered in a thick, translucent slime that shimmered unnaturally in the daylight, and the

texture was all wrong too. It felt weirdly sticky, very unnaturally. Very unnaturally. cold, colder than anything around it should be anyway. It was on my fingers, too, clinging to them, so I immediately start wiping them on the first patch of grass that I see, exclaiming how gross it is. Now, I know what some of you are going to be thinking at this point, that the weird slime on my watch was something that it wasn't, but I can assure you in the most polite and very sterile manner possible that it was not the thing that you're thinking of. I say this because my two friends immediately started joking around that it was.

And while sure, that was mildly amusing at the time, it didn't answer the question of what was actually on my watch. One of them suggested it was some kind of treacep. And I responded, ew, no, it's not treacep, touch it. But as you can probably guess, he didn't think that was such a hot idea. It was then a question of if it was covered in that slime, who the hell put it there for it to be covered in that stuff. It wasn't Vaseline, and it smelled gross and dank, too, so it definitely wasn't some kind of hair or beauty product. I washed my fingers off with some water from my bottle and then considered trying to wash my watch off, too, until I realized that I actually really

didn't want it anymore. And by that stage, all the good energy had been sapped away from us, and I was this sort of mix of grossed out, freaked out, and actually kind of frightened, too. If it was a prank, then that's fine. I think I'd actually rather it was just another group of hikers who decided to balance playing good Samaritans by pranking us too. But then the alternatives, I don't even really want to think about it. And as we walked back to the car and drove back home, the mood had shifted completely. Each of us was caught up in our own speculation and discomfort, and I couldn't shake the image of that watch from my mind. Back at home, I tried to rationalize what we'd seen. I researched, looking into any natural phenomena that could explain that slime but found nothing

conclusive. It wasn't just the watch that bothered me, though, or the slime. It was the feeling that we brushed against something that, I don't know, maybe shouldn't exist. Months passed and the memory of that weekend began to fade into the background of everyday life, but every so often when I'd see a similar watcher hear about strange activity or someone going missing in the woods, my mind would snap back to that section of the PCT. I've since gone on other hikes, but I never felt that same piece. There's always a part of me that's looking and waiting for something out of the ordinary. The PCT has always been a place of beauty and escape,

but now I feel like there's this undertone of apprehension every time I'm there. Because that watch, dripping with that unknown slime put there by God knows who and taken from me through God knows how, as just sort of a tiny little glimpse into the mysteries that might lurk in the places that we only think we know. This email comes from a proton.combe, e-mail, arriving in the Let's Read Submission's inbox. It appears to be from an anonymous source in the St. Louis Police Department. It reads as follows.

Dear Sir, it has come to my attention that your rather sizable audience is in need of a terrifying but ultimately true story. And while not particularly long or meandering, I think this is one they need to hear. One of my favorite quotes is from one of our founding fathers, James Madison, when he said, the truth is that all men having power ought to be mistrusted. I first heard it way back at the very beginning of my career, and over my 35 years as a serving police officer, those words were never far from my mind. Since we're charged with upholding the law, we have to hold ourselves to a higher standard than our civilian counterparts, meaning sometimes we have to direct that sense of mistrust

towards our very own selves, because sometimes it's not so much the past. of holding a badge and a gun that corrupts a man. We have all kinds of oversight and regulatory bodies to ensure that when an officer does step over that moral red line, he's suitably punished for it. And I'm sorry, but I will get poetic here. For what is truly corrosive to an officer's soul is an overexposure to the very poison he seeks to combat, and that is perhaps the most insidious trait in all of law enforcement, when a good cop, over the course of many months and years, becomes a bad cop. One morning, in September of 2023, I received a report that two of my officers had been called to a domestic dispute the previous evening, in which a 29-year-old man

named Ura-Yoan Rodriguez Rivera had suffered an unfortunate accident involving a firearm he owned. At around 6.30, when my officers arrived at the scene, they found Mr. Rodriguez Rivera lying at the base of a tree, struggling to breathe and suffering severe blood loss from wounds to his face and neck. He was in a critical condition and required urgent medical assistance, but instead of administering first aid or requesting the presence of emergency services, my officers chose to neglect and belittle Mr. Rodriguez Rivera in the final few moments of his life. an officer warren is heard to comment we better take this mother effray in to which an officer fraser replies we aren't taking anything i get off in thirty minutes let's cruise around and come back then after walking away from the scene while laughing to one another officers warren and fraser get back into the car and drive away from an act of crime scene

they return to the scene in around ten minutes later just moments before a third police officer arrives on scene At this point, I had to switch over to watching the body camera footage from this third officer and what I saw shocked me to my core. Frazier and Warren began to pretend as if it's their first time at the scene and began going through the motions of searching for the wounded Mr. Rodriguez Rivera, even though they knew exactly where he was. When the third officer spotted Mr. Rodriguez Rivera, he immediately notified dispatch and made a priority request that EMS come to the scene for a a person still breathing with a gunshot wound to the head. Other officers also arrive shortly after and tape off the scene. One checks Rodriguez Rivera for a pulse, which he describes as super weak. That officer then searches the area for a firearm as another tries to render first aid.

Just minutes later, the third officer's body camera shows Warren and Frazier walking to their police cruiser, then leaving the scene for a second time, once additional officers had arrived. The third officer, who I believe exemplifies the true spirit of law enforcement in this fair city, tells a fourth. You know what's effed up? Warren and Frazier just left. The same officer later says he's going to out the F out of Frazier and Warren for abandoning the scene because he said he can't just leave. Emergency medical services arrived at the scene at 6.53 p.m. at which point Mr. Rodriguez-Rabera was transported to the hospital, and that was around 27 minutes after Warren and Frasier first arrived at the scene, 27 minutes too late.

Tragically, Mr. Rodriguez-Rabera later passed away as a result of a single gunshot wound to the head, with the emergency surgeon who worked on him saying that had he arrived a little earlier, they might well have been able to save his life. I will never forget the feeling which came over me when I watched the... the body-worn camera footage of the incident. I didn't know whether I was going to puke or smash my computer, and I think I must have watched it maybe four or five times before I could allow myself to believe what I was seeing and hearing.

I couldn't grasp it at first. The officers in question weren't bad guys, or at least they didn't seem to be, and their disciplinary records didn't speak to that either. But I also observed that their psych profiles were long out of date, meaning it might have been possible to identify the problem before it resulted in such a grotesque dereliction of duty. Once the news hit the airwaves that the two officers had been suspended prior to an investigation, the press reached out to Mr. Rodriguez-Rivera's mother, who lived in Puerto Rico.

As a father, that was the part that really got to me. The part where a mother had to learn that not only had her son's death potentially been avoidable, but the very people charged with his protection had abandoned. him when he needed them most. She claimed the officers lacked humanity, and that she hoped the full weight of the law fell on them. The media also reached out to our former chief who made a very candid but deeply controversial statement.

He said the officer's behavior was disgusting, that they'd be fired and there was probably going to be a multi-million dollar lawsuit. But from where he was standing, he couldn't see any criminal charge. being filed against either officer. Both officers have since been fired by the St. Louis Metropolitan Police, with each of their police licenses being terminated. And in the state of Missouri, those licenses cannot be reinstated by law, so they will never again be allowed to act in a law enforcement capacity here in our fair state. But what truly concerns me isn't so much the fact that this happened, it's the potential for it to happen again.

We, as those who volunteer to enforce the law, are faced with one of the most difficult jobs in the entire country. But while we have deep pockets for increasing surveillance and militarization, the resources we put aside to fight our mental battles are sorely lacking. I do not believe Warren or Frasier joined the St. Louis police force in order to neglect their duties and belittle a dying man. I believe that they were two once decent officers who threw a lack of mental high Eugene and department support made a terrible and regrettable mistake.

And rightly so, it is a mistake that they have been punished for. And it remains to be seen if any further action will be taken against the two former officers. But when I say that this incident was avoidable, the avoidance lies in ensuring our protectors get the protection they need, not just from the violent criminals that seek to exploit and violate, but from the lesser angels of their own beings. Unfortunately, due to the departmental policy, I am unable to attach a name to my story without facing serious disciplinary consequences, hence why I'm sending this anonymously. Yet in good conscience, I can no longer remain silent.

We should never forget about James Madison's words, nor should we ever grow tired of scrutinizing those who wield the whip over us. But in the same way we value the mental health of combat veterans, we need to do more to help those who help us. And for the time being, my task is to ensure such a failure does not occur again. We must rebuild trust and honor the memory of Mr. Rodriguez-Rivera by ensuring our officers act with dignity and urgency required in such moments of crisis. And we do that with Kevlar for the mind. I found this police report from the 90s at the National Archives in Seattle.

You can basically make an appointment and then spend a few hours reading old police reports and stuff. Most are pretty standard and there's not much of interest about them. but occasionally you find one like this. Incidents at 601 Franklin Avenue. Date 10.11.93. Time. 1322. Reporting officer, Deputy Andrew A. Winsel. 498. Incident description.

I received a dispatch call at approximately 122 p.m. regarding a male subject at 1433 Murray Drive, who was reportedly behaving erratically. The caller described the man as appearing to suffer from hallucinations and was audibly claiming that his skin was on fire. I was expecting the man to be in a state of intoxication or that perhaps he was suffering some kind of mental breakdown. But upon my arrival at the scene, I was met with a sight that I can only describe as the most disturbing of my entire career. The man, identified later as Paul Weldon, was lying on the front lawn, clearly deceased, with his body severely charred and burned.

I immediately secured the area and called for medical and fire department personnel, although it was clear that there was no saving the individual. Witnesses on the scene, including Sharon McManus, provided a consistent account of what had transpired. They stated that, after running up and down the street, screaming about a skin, being on fire, the man had suddenly burst into flames. He then collapsed to the ground and continued to burn intensely. They also described how the flames seemed to suddenly and inexplicably extinguish themselves, leaving the man's body severely burnt, yet without any apparent external source of ignition. What was particularly baffling and unsettling to all those who attended the scene

was the condition of the surrounding area. There were no signs of scorch marks or any indication of fire spread on the grass or nearby objects. The lawn around the deceased appeared untouched by fire, which defied any logical explanation or previous experience I have had with fire-related incidents. The fire department also confirmed no accelerants were present and that the lack of fire damage to the area surrounding the body was highly unusual. This case remains open, with investigations into possible spontaneous human combustion or other as yet unexplained phenomena. The medical examiner has taken custody of the body for further examination and statements from all witnesses are being processed. This incident has left an indelible mark on my career, not just for the visual horror, but for how difficult I find rationalizing it.

It's something that I doubt I will ever fully understand or ever fully forget. Deputy Andrew Arthur Winsall 498, Carson County Sheriff's Office, Texas. It was one of those days where the sky was as clear as you really could have hoped for, on a cloud in sight. My partner and I were on a routine patrol just cruising through the neighborhood when it happened, and it happened out of nowhere. Some guy decides that he's going to be the end of me.

So I was walking up to this character, just doing my job, when, like a bolt from the blue, he pulls out a 9mm from his jacket. time slows down in my mind right you see the gun you see the barrel and you know what comes next he points it at me his eyes are wide wild with some kind of fear or anger i really couldn't tell and then he pulls the trigger but here's the thing he did everything wrong maybe he was too scared or too angry or just plain didn't know how to handle a gun the hammer fell but the gun didn't fire the chamber must have been empty or the safety was on or who knows what. I didn't stick around to find out. And in that split second, I saw my life flashed before my eyes, but then I was moving. Adrenaline took over,

and I lunch for him. He was so shocked that his gun didn't work. He just stood there, his grip loosening, the pistol hit the ground, and he starts screaming, don't shoot me, please don't shoot me, like he hadn't even done anything at all to me. And I'll admit, I was scared out of my mind. My heart was pounding so bad that I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. By the time we got back to the station, I was still wired, and my body was buzzing with the aftermath of that rush. I tried to sit down, tried to write up the arrest report, but my right leg would not cooperate. It was like I had a pogo stick for a limb, bouncing up and down with a leftover adrenaline. My hands were shaking too.

When another officer brought me a glass of water thinking it had calmed me down, I ended up spilling half of it all over my desk. That moment, that near-miss with death, it stuck with me. The sheer enormity of the fact that I was still breathing because of his stupidity was something that I couldn't shake off. It wasn't just luck. It was a reminder of how thin the line is between life and death when you're in this line of work. As I wrote the report detailing every moment of the encounter, I kept running through what could

have been. If he had known how to actually use that gun, if he had prepared it properly, I wouldn't be here. But he didn't, and I was, and that's not something you forget. It's a lesson in humility and the randomness of fate. The guy, he was charged with attempted murder, among other things, but for me, the real takeaway was the haunting realization of how close I came to not making at home. And every day now, I check my gear more thoroughly, and I treat every encounter with a bit more caution, because you never know when the clear blue sky might just turn dark. 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. Thank you.