The Lets Read Podcast - 320: HE WAS TAKEN BY THE CAVE | 7 TERRIFYING True Scary Stories | EP 305

Episode Date: November 11, 2025

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about the Park Rangers & Walmart 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 sponsored by: - Betterhelp

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Please play responsibly. If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. But MGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. I'm going to be able to be. I've spent the last 25 years as a ranger at the Wind Cave National Park here in western South Dakota. Teddy Roosevelt established the place back in the early 1900s, and it's one of the first six national parks ever founded. But although it's more than 50 square miles of dense forests, mixed grass, prairie, and rocky hills, it takes its name from the geological phenomenon that is Wind Cave.

Wind Cave is the largest of its kind in the entire world and has more passage volume per cubic mile than any other on the planet, which, in plain English, means there are more underground tunnels under the park than any other place in the world. On top of that, only around 10% of them have been fully explored, meaning there are thousands of miles of unexplored passageways, and at the going rate, technology permitting, of course, it'll take scientists and cavers more than 600 years to fully explore them.

The Lakota Native Americans who made the area their home spoke of a living, breathing cave system through which their ancestors had crawled from the underworld during the first days of creation. They called the caves Washanaya, and they played an important role in the culture and creation myths of their people, who speak of Tokahe, or the first man emerging from the darkness. It sounds like classical, mythological storytelling, yet the Lakota's belief that wind cave is a living, breathing network of tunnels is not entirely unfounded.

When high pressure is higher outside the cave than inside it, air flows into the cave, raising the cave's internal pressure to match outside pressure. The process also works in the exact opposite way, meaning that in some of the larger caves, the continuous flow of air really does give the impression that the earth itself, is inhaling and exhaling. As you can imagine, such an incredible natural phenomenon attracts a lot of visitors each year, and for the most part, those visits are safe and uneventful. But one day back in 2003, what started as a fairly routine search for a missing hiker

became something I'll never forget. I've been a ranger at Wind Cave National Park for just over three years when the call came in. It was late in the afternoon on a chilly September day when my phone started buzzing. Its screen said Grand Teton, short for Grand Teton Interagency Dispatch Center, so I knew some kind of emergency must be unfolding. When I picked up, the dispatcher told me she got in a call from a panicked hiker, who said his friend had followed a child into a wind cave, and neither had come out again. Since this is still technically an open investigation, I'll refer to the man.

missing person is Hiker M out of respect for his family. I know the internet can go crazy with amateur detectives chasing up leads and I don't want to be the cause of an unnecessary grief to those affected. The caller on the other hand, I'll refer to as Hiker F, so the missing hiker and his friend. The two men had been hiking down Lookout Point Trail, but when they reached Wind Cave, they saw a lone child running towards its entrance alone. At the time, the cave wasn't attended by any park staff, and since both men knew that the caves weren't a safe area to play, Hiker F claimed they'd called after the child, but the little boy hadn't responded. Concerned for the child's safety, both men ran after him, and then by the time they caught up,

they saw the boy crawling into a narrow tunnel. Hiker M followed, assuring Hiker F that he'd return in just a few minutes, but apparently he didn't come back. After some time, Hiker F followed his friend down the narrow tunnel, calling out for him as he went, but no one responded. Then rather than risk getting himself lost down there, Hiker F ran back to the surface and then ran another two miles to get the cell signal to call 911. First thing I did was alert the superintendent. Then I called the park's search and rescue team and directed them toward Wind Cave. It was early evening by the time I reached the entrance, but the team had already mostly assembled and within the hour, everyone was on site and ready to go.

There were eight of us, including two caving specialists who mapped parts of the cave with the paha Sapa Grado. Hiker F was there too, and he got more and more agitated as he repeated his story to us. See, the first thing Hiker F did after he exited the cave, following the brief search for Hiker M and the child he'd followed, was go looking for the kid's parents. If there was a kid running around, then his parents are teachers or whoever he was with would surely be nearby. So when Hiker F went running out of that cave hollering for help and there was no one around, he obviously got real spooked. I could understand why, I mean,

what the hell was a kid doing out there all alone? We didn't have time to dwell on it, though. We geared up, our caving specialist took point and then we entered the cave. The entrance was a tight squeeze, barely two feet wide, and I felt that familiar rush of cool air as we shimmied through, and the cave's breathing blew a breeze against my face. Inside, the passage opened slightly, but it was still cramped, with jagged walls and a floor that sloped unevenly. Our headlamps cut through the dark, catching flashes of the delicate, blade-like rock formations that almost look like spider webs frozen in stone. Our caving specialist traced the path they believed Hiker M most likely took, which took us to a low

crawl space branching off the end of the main tunnel. We crawled single file as the passage narrowed even further, forcing us to belly crawl which made our packs drag against the ceiling. After an hour, we found signs of Hiker M. A torn piece of blue fabric caught on a jagged rock, probably from the jacket he was wearing. This was obviously bad news. Not only had he gone deeper than we'd hoped, but there was a good chance that he was hurt, and if he was hurt, getting him out would be a problem. We pushed onward, following what our cavers thought was the hikers' most likely route. The cave twisted and branched, and our specialists were almost constantly checking their maps, but hiker M's path didn't follow any known route. From what they could tell, he'd taken

turns that led from the developed paths and towards more unexplored sections of the tunnel. And by midnight, we'd advanced no more than around two miles, and the passages were only getting tighter. My shoulders brushed the walls, and I had to tilt my head to avoid the ceiling. Before long, we'd found more signs of our missing hiker. A smudged handprint on a ton of wall, a boot print in a patch of damp clay. Then in a smaller chamber, I saw something that made my skin crawl. A water bottle, one we later determined belonged to hiker.

M, lay half crushed in the corner of the chamber. Next to it was what we determined to be a smear of blood on the wall, fresh enough to glisten in the light of our headlamps. And that's when it became clear Hiker M was hurt, which made our search for him time critical. And we kept going. But it almost felt like the cave itself was fighting back in places. Passages narrowed to little slits, forcing us to backtrack,

while one tunnel suddenly dropped off into a pit and showed to be too deep. deep to cross without climbing gear. Another tunnel ended in a pool of dark still water. And while I'd never actually seen it before, I knew enough about wind cave to know that I was looking at Calcite Lake. This was formed millions of years ago by water carving intricate passages through the earth. Calcite Lake glimmered in our headlamps because of the calcite rafts, these thin floating sheets of mineral that drift on its still surface. And around the edge of Calcite Lake is a build-up of silt, and it's that fine, damp rock dust that preserved Hiker M's bootprint right there on the edge of the water. The lake isn't deep enough to drown in, not unless a person

was laying down unconscious, but if that's what happened to Hiker M, we'd have found his body right there on the surface. And just like everywhere else in those tunnels, our missing Hiker was nowhere to be found. Now, by 3 a.m., we were exhausted, and we'd gone so deep that our radios were useless. We retreated to the surface to regroup, promising hiker F that we'd go back for his missing friend in the morning. And maybe six or seven hours later, reinforcements arrived, including a team from the NSS, the National Speleological Society. They were some of the best cavers in the entire country, paid to map out places like the Western fringe, where reaching underground passages sometimes took days of living like moles. And we split into three groups,

taking a different branch from where we'd found the blood. Then within just a few short hours, we found what we suspected to be further traces of Hiker M, including a broken fingernail and another smear of blood. But even after all those cavers covered all those tunnels, we still didn't find our missing hiker. Now, by day three, we were going deeper than most tours ever went. My knees ached and my back was screaming, but I kept crawling. Driven by the thought of that poor guy, all of the alone down there in the dark. We didn't find anything that day either, but on the fourth day, we found something that stopped us cold. In a narrow chamber, barely big enough to kneel in, we saw scratches in the clay covering the rocky wall. Deep, frantic gouges like someone had clawed at

the stone. One of my teams shone his light on the floor and there was a shredded glove belonging to Hiker M. There was no body, no bones, just the torn up. glove and the scratches on the wall. We reported it to the surface and when we did, I remember how the mood shifted completely. People went from confident and hopeful that we'd get Hiker M back to the surface alive to wondering how soon the higher ups would just pull the plug. If a hiker gets lost, even in the tunnels under wind cave, finding them can actually be quite a simple process. Most know to stay put and to use flares, fires, or things in their environment to get the attention. of the folks looking for them.

But people who panic, people who aren't in their right minds, they tend to have real problems staying put. And it's the ones who panic that you really have to worry about, because they make mistakes, sometimes fatal ones too. That night when I got back to my cabin after the day's search, I had trouble getting to sleep. I kept picturing Hiker M, scared out of his mind down there in the dark, with his hands tearing at the rock in desperation.

I prayed that he'd stay put, maybe call out a little so we could hear him. But I don't think God passed on the message, because day five was the worst of all. One of the volunteer cavers we had with us got stuck in a crawl space. Since he was little more than a brave hobbyist, he panicked, and then started thrashing and screaming until we were able to yank him free. We got him to the surface and had a medic look him over, and he was fine, but he refused to go back in. And by day six, we were running out of options. We'd searched every major branch and followed every lead we had, but there was still no sign of Hiker M.

The NSS cavers started mapping new passages, hoping maybe they'd find a hidden chamber that Hiker M was sheltering in. But all they found were more dead ends and more empty caves. One team reported hearing what sounded like a low, breathy wheeze as they traversed sections of the tunnel, but it probably could have been the wind. The caves breathing played tricks like that, making the wind sound like whispers or worse. In the afternoon, we made a final push past Calcite Lake, to tunnels where the walls were slick and the air felt heavy. We crawled for hours, our lights barely cutting through the darkness, and at one point,

I thought I saw a shadow move just beyond my beam, but when I swung my light, there was nothing there. On the seventh day, we called it. our superintendent was the one who made the final decision but everyone agreed that after seven days with no sign of life there was very little chance that hiker m was still with us we'd risked our lives and i'd have done it all again in a heartbeat if i was told to but in all that time we found nothing but little scrapes and blood hiker m was down there we had no doubt about that but at that stage we also knew that it might take months maybe even years before anyone was

able to bring him home. I heard Hiker F broke down sobbing when he got the news that the search had been called off, and we suspected that his friend was deceased. That was a rough one on the superintendent. He just didn't know what to tell that poor guy. And when all was said and done and the search was over, I filed my report, but the question still lingered, obviously. And I kept going back to that cave for work, leading tours and checking paths, but it's really never the same for any of us. We had to upgrade security around the cave entrance to ensure that it didn't happen again, and visitor numbers took a real dive for a while. Months later, a caver found something in a remote section of the tunnel. You see, it was a single hiking boot in Hiker M's size, completely

buried in clay. No blood, no other sign of the missing hiker, just that one boot. We added it to the file, but it really doesn't change much. The cave had taken him. and it obviously wasn't giving them back. I still work at Wind Cave. I still walk its trails and the tunnels underneath them, but I don't go deep anymore, not unless I have to. And when I do, I keep my light on and my eyes peeled, and I try not to think about what might be down there in the dark.

I have an unusual face. I see people looking when I talk to them, and I catch them staring when I walked past. And they can't help themselves, and it doesn't make me mad or anything. I'd look, too, if the roles were reversed. Now, I'm not ugly by any standard. I do okay in the dating world, but... The story of how I got the face is quite ugly, and since it's one that I feel like I'm getting

off my chest as I sent this into you, you get to read about it. So I grew up in Ohio, and although my mom tried her best, I was a bad kid growing up. She had to work a lot to keep her son, i.e. me, clothed, and fed, and grandma was just too damn tired to keep a leash on me, so by the time I was 13, I was running wild almost every night in the company of some equally damaged friends of mine. I say damaged because it was around that same time I found out my dad hadn't just run off. He'd been murdered. And after I found out, I was just mad, all the time, I guess.

But so were my friends, and that's how we ended up discovering a mutual love for our favorite pastime, breaking stuff. On a Friday night, we'd head over to places where almost every single house on the street was derelict and boarded up. Then where we could, we'd kick in doors, kick down fences, and smash wooden beams. And we didn't always stick to abandoned houses either. And a lot of the time,

we'd picked one or two occupied ones and tossed a brick or two through their front windows. We were letting out all the tension, I guess, and I'm not making excuses for myself. That's just how it was back then. We weren't interested in school, and we dropped out as early as we could. And then for the next couple of years we bummed around, breaking stuff, stealing stuff, and making money where we could.

Then one day, a friend of ours got busted for something he didn't even do, and then he ended up going to Juvie for it, and I guess that scared me straight. I got my drinking and smoking under control, cut my hair, and took out my nose ring, then went around town trying to find somewhere that would give a job to someone with zero work experience doing anything. And, well, that place turned out to be Walmart. An employee told me to write to the store's hiring manager explaining my situation, and I didn't think that it had worked, but it did. And I got an interview, explained that I wanted to make an honest living and keep myself out of trouble. The hiring manager told me as long as my background check cleared, he'd give me a shot. And I'd be on probation to start with, meaning they could let me go at any time, no questions asked.

but I was willing to prove myself, so he threw me a bone. A week later, I was at orientation doing a bunch of paperwork and watching a bunch of videos. It was tiring, doing all that lifting and walking and dealing with assholes for just minimum wage. My coworkers were kind of standoffish with me to begin with, too, so I felt this pressure not to mess up and, I don't know, prove them wrong about me. After a few months, people started to warm up to me, and my supervisor started to notice. my hard work and enthusiasm. I got more hours, which meant more money than by the time they were talking about cross-training me as a cashier, I realized they actually trusted me. And that meant a

lot, made me feel like I could be a normal person instead of some scumbag to them. The routine and stability were nice, too. It gave me a reason to stay sober, clocking in, working all day, then going home knowing that paycheck was going to be there no matter what. And it was kind of bliss, and I was actually happy, but I guess that I was living on borrowed time. As one day I was stocking shelves, just doing my thing when I noticed a guy watching me from down the aisle. You get used to that pretty quick. People were just curious, especially kids, but they usually move on after a second or two once their curiosity is satisfied, and this guy didn't. Instead, and I'm watching out of the corner of my eye, he just stands there, definitely not looking at

anything on the shelves, like his face is 100% locked onto me. I made eye contact with the guy as I turned to grab another box. Then purely out of habit, I say, can I help you with anything today, sir? I figured that might be his deal, like he needed help, but was just too shy to ask. But he just smiled and said, no, no thank you. And then turned around and walked off. The guy seemed like a little socially awkward, but I'd seen weirder stuff in my time, and I hadn't even reached half a year of employment yet either, so I'd had no doubt that there was more to come. But then four days later, on the Saturday shift that I agreed to cover for a co-worker, the exact same thing happened again.

I was stocking shelves in another area of the store, and I saw a figure in the corner of my eye. I didn't recognize him right away. It took a second for the penny to drop. but when it did, I tried to stay as polite and professional as possible and just said, Hello again, sir, you need help with anything? It was almost a carbon copy of the first time. He smiled, shook his head, and then walked off without saying anything. Now, I'm thinking, okay, this guy's definitely a little off.

But Walmart without weirdos is like a day without sunshine, I always say. It just didn't feel like I'd worked a full shift unless I encountered at least one. I mentioned the whole thing to a co-worker of mine, but she just sort of laughed, like, looks like someone's got a crush on you. And we turned the whole thing into a joke like that, much in the same way we did with everything that bothered us about the job. Laughing about stuff burned off a little of the tension, so that the next time something happened, you didn't just explode in the face of a rude customer.

I also wasn't too worried because I'd never had a weird customer like that before, and Honestly, I didn't think that he'd be back after that second time. But I guess that was more hopeful than anything, because maybe a week or so later, there he was again. I was stocking shelves. I saw him step into the aisle, and after a quick look to see who it was, I remember saying, you've got to be kidding me, under my breath, before turning to face him.

I said, hello again, sir. With just enough hardness to my voice to let him know that I didn't appreciate the repeat performance, I wasn't scared or anything. I was more wondering where the hell this was all going and what the guy's angle was. He smiled when I said hello to him and he set it back very calmly before reaching into his pocket and pulling at his phone. He held it up, looking at something on his screen, then his eyes darted to me for a second and back to his phone. I figured that he was looking at a product on his phone and he was about to ask if we had it in stock or something. I couldn't figure out why it took him three tries to get there, but like I said, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing that it ever happened on shift.

But he doesn't show me anything. He just carries on looking back and forth as I noticed something about the hand he was holding his phone with. The back was all scarred up, like an old burn scar, like all pale pink compared to his wrist and fingers. Now I was halfway through saying, sir, if there's nothing else I can help you with. When he cut me off and asked, You don't remember me, do you? It sounds crazy looking back on it, but I had to sort of tighten my lips to keep from just grinning in his face,

because of course I remembered him. Half my coworkers were probably saying to each other, hey, check it out, Craig's crush is back and he's asking for his number now. And as the thought entered my head, it almost had me laughing out loud. I told him, sure I remember you sir this is the third time we've talked by now then in response the guy just kind of laughed a little as he slid his phone back into his pocket and then he says you really don't remember me do you i guess that was his way of telling me that he knew who i was but i was wearing

my name badge at the time i had legitimately thought that he was just reading it off of that I asked if I was supposed to remember him, because I didn't, and then asked where he knew me from if it wasn't from Walmart. I was racking my brain the entire time thinking, is this guy an old neighbor or something? Someone from school maybe, or a cop that I wrestled with one time. But nothing was sticking. The guy's face just didn't ring a single bell. The guy said he wasn't all that surprised that I didn't remember him, and he says,

it's been a long time you were just a kid when we last met and i fell back on my training and tried turning a not so nice conversation into a nice one saying something like well no wonder i don't remember you i barely remember what i ate for dinner two nights ago but the guy didn't laugh he kept on smiling but he didn't laugh then he asked me and i had to look this up to make sure that i'm spelling it right but he asked me Do you know what degenerative myopathy is, Craig? You know when you've never heard of something before, like something sciencey, and you hear the words and you're just sort of like, huh? I mean, you probably just did it, reading what I copied and pasted into this email here,

thought, degener, my, what now? Well, I hope you didn't go looking it up or anything, because I'm about to explain what it is, which is exactly what the weird guy with the burn scar did with me. And I told him, no, I don't. And then, in so many words, this is what he told me. Degenerative myopathy is a degenerative disease that affects German shepherds, where their back legs start to weaken and eventually give out.

It comes from a tiny defect in their DNA, and when the defect is present, the nerves in the dog's lower spine start to break down over time. The condition usually shows up when the German shepherd is older, around eight years or more, And at first, you might notice the dog dragging its back paws a little or wobbling when it walks. It's like their back legs are forgetting how to work properly. And then over months or even a couple of years, the weakness gets worse. The dog might struggle to stand up, have trouble walking, or eventually lose the ability to move its back legs altogether. It's tough to watch because the dog is still alert and happy in their mind, but their body just won't cooperate.

Now, he's giving me this weird speech, and then when he got to the sad part there about them still being all happy on their minds, I had to interrupt him. And I remember saying very politely, Sir, I don't understand why you're telling me this. And he just raised a hand and then kept going. There's no cure for degenerative myopathy yet. Vets can suggest things like physical therapy, special harnesses, even wheelchairs to help a dog stay mobile and comfortable. for as long as possible. The goal is to keep them happy and enjoying life, even as their legs give out.

And for now, researchers are working hard to learn more, but the best we can do is give these dogs lots of love and support to keep their tails wagging. And I remember in that moment thinking, is this guy working for some kind of charity or representing a drug or something? And so I asked him, but he said no. He told me he had a dog like that once. a German shepherd that was the most loyal and beautiful dog he'd ever owned. He got her from a rescue after some cops raided a puppy mill,

and the kind of place where they don't take any care in the breeding of the dogs. They just churn out puppies for profit. He was told by people at the rescue that she'd probably have the DM defect. Some of the older dogs at the mill were showing advanced symptoms, so they figured it'd been passed on to a lot of the pups. And they were right. And when his loyal old dog reached eight years, years old, he said, her back leg started to give out. Most of the time, a vet recommends putting the

dog down once its quality of life gets too rough. German shepherds are energetic dogs and they need to run and play and exercise just like any other. When they can't get all that, they get depressed, and when they get depressed, it makes the symptoms of the diseases all the worse. He started telling me how they lie there in the night, crying out because they can't make it to the bathroom, and then I interrupted him again, having dropped all the professional courtesy. I'd just say, dude, if you don't need my help, I'm probably going to get security. I got a lot to get done today, and the guy opened his jacket, very discreetly showing off the gun that he had holstered near his armpit and then softly said,

If you move a muscle, I'll kill you, and I'll kill everyone in this whole store before I eat this gun. I don't care. And I just froze. The guy went from a weird but gentle old guy to threatening me with this psychopathic look in his eyes and then told me to shut up and listen and then just went about talking about his dog. He said he didn't have the heart to have her put down, how the dog had saved his life during a messy divorce where he lost all custody of his kids.

he said he'd resigned himself to taking care of a disabled dog until it died or he did and then came the fire he was driving home from the grocery store having only left his dog alone for maybe 15 to 20 minutes then when he turned on his street he saw the black smoke rising into the air he said he just knew from the position of it after having lived there for all those years that it was his house that was going up in smoke So he put his foot down in the gas, skidded into his driveway, then ran into his burning home to try and save his dog. He burned his hand checking a metal doorknob to see if it was warm. It wasn't just warm. It fried his skin and took a whole layer off.

He used his shirt to open the door and his dog was laying on the other side. That dog was a smart old pooch and when she was able, she used to be able to open up doors by standing on her hind legs. and scrabbling at the handle, she could do it with round ones too, and it got to be a real problem sometimes. He'd have to put a chair up against the door to stop her wandering out into the backyard at night to bark at squirrels, and he kind of laughed as he talked, like he was recalling these nice memories. But I knew by then that he wasn't some kindly old man, at least not anymore. He said he tried to save his dog's life, but it was too late. She'd inhaled too much smoke and she'd passed on. The fire department arrived not long after, put out the blaze,

then after investigating its causes, they told the guy it was arson. The cops had their suspicions as to who did it, but they could never prove it, so no one ever got punished for it. The house was burned so badly that it would have cost him way too much to repair, so he sold the land to developers, moved elsewhere, and tried to let go. But he couldn't. He planned on getting a new dog, but the thought of going through all that heartbreak again was something he couldn't face. Then, without a dog, and only his failing business to keep him going, he found that he didn't have much to live for anymore. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of finding out who'd set his house on fire. And then after a long search, where for years he didn't get anywhere,

he made a breakthrough. He found out that there were some kids in the area around that time, some pretty bad ones too. They liked drinking, smoking, and listening to heavy metal music. But whenever they got their spirits up, they liked one thing more than anything. To go out breaking, stealing, and most relevant here, burning stuff. The sinking feeling that I felt when he said that last part is something that'll be with me till the day I die. I never felt anything like before. Not even when we found out our buddy was headed to Juvie for something he did.

didn't even do, and I've never felt anything like it since. It was like the single biggest, oh, please, God, no, moment of my whole God-forsaken life, and it wasn't over, not by a long shot. I know it must have registered on my face, that feeling of dread, I mean, because I remember seeing a female co-worker of mine over the old man's shoulder, and she looked pretty anxious. I guess the old man saw me looking, because he looked over his shoulder, then when he saw my female co-worker walking towards us, he whispered, I'll kill her. You just watch, say anything, and I'll kill her. The same female co-worker was one of the people I'd be joking with about how the guy had a crush on me. I guess she came by to silently laugh at first, and when she saw my face,

she realized something was terribly wrong. She walked right up to me and the old guy and asked if everything was all right. I told her everything was fine, and that I was just helping the older gentleman make a purchase. He gave her this warm, convincing smile, told her I was being more than helpful, then declined her offer of more help. She gave me this kind of confused look, then was sort of like, well, okay then, and then walked off. But I could tell that she was going straight to security. We took care of each other that way, which was part of the reason I liked working there to begin with. I guess the older guy knew that he had to act, that people were catching on to him because he told me, we're going to walk out of the store together, and you're going to walk

with me to my truck. Try to run. I'll blow your kneecap out, then make you watch while I kill everyone I see. I actually didn't remember setting this guy's house on fire. I know that there's people that won't believe that, but it's true. I do think one of the buddies set the fire during a time when I wasn't hanging out with him, and I admit that's exactly the kind of thing we used to do back then, but I don't have this sort of photographic memory of setting a fire before running off. I told the guy that, how I thought that he had the wrong guy, but then the way he looked at me let me know that he was incredibly serious about everything he was saying, and I could see it, clear as day, how bad he wanted to just pull that gun out and turn my head into a canoe.

But he held back, and so did I, raising my hands with the same. palms flat as if to say, please don't. He swallowed, like he was swallowing down his rage and then told me, walk ahead of me. Don't stop until I tell you to. I started walking, and just as I did, I saw security appear at the end of the aisle. I told them everything was fine as I walked past. Then they turned their attention to the old man who told them, It's all right, gentlemen. I was just leaving.

And both guys backed off, gave each other a look, then the older man nodded to me, and I kept on walking. I could feel the cold sweat on my back and in my armpits as I walked towards the store's front exit. It was like everything in me was screaming at me to not walk out those doors, because when I did, the guy was going to shoot me and then just walk to his truck and drive off. Or worse, he was going to force me to his truck, drive me someplace, and then do even worse things to me before the end. But when he said he'd sooner shoot up the store than allow me to run, and since I believed him when he said that, I knew that I had no choice but to just keep walking out the store

and hope it was just me that he hurt and not everyone in sight. On the way out, another coworker asked where I was going. I told him I was taking five, and since we didn't do stuff like that without permission from supervisors, he knew something was strange. But I don't think that he'd have been able to get, what it was if you gave him a million tries. By the time we were walking through the parking lot among the rows of hundreds of parked cars, the guy was jamming the barrel of his gun into my back

saying, don't stop now, or I'll put a dozen in the ground before I blow your head off. And I mean it when I say that's what kept me going. That and a feeling that my luck had finally run out, and it was time to pay the piper for the crap that I'd done when I was a teenager. He told me to get it in his passenger seat and so I did, and then he walked around to the driver's side and then climbed in next to me. I asked him where he was taking me, but he just told me nowhere. He then took a pack of smokes off the dash, put one between his lips, and then pushed the top of the old-style cigarette lighter in his center console. While he waited for it to heat up, he started telling me how he thought about killing me for the longest time. Once he figured out who had set his house on fire and who had

killed his dog, he thought about all the different ways that he could get revenge, be it torture us, suffocate us, or set us on fire. But all that was too elaborate, too risky, and too time-consuming. Instead, he thought of something simple but effective, something that could do everything he wanted to do, that it'd take no more time than a few minutes. He had the gun on me the whole time and I didn't trust that he wasn't going to shoot me. I figured he was just saying all of that to keep my down so I wouldn't run and he'd get to watch my face as he pulled the trigger. But he was telling the truth. He didn't shoot me. He did something else instead. When the cigarette lighter was done heating up, it popped back out with this little click. The guy then grabbed it, lit a cigarette with it,

and then told me, don't move. You scream, but you don't dare move. And that's when he started leaning toward me. Gun in one hand, glowing hot lighter in the other, and I realized what he was going to do. I gripped the door handle, not the opener, but the other plastic handle side, and all I remember before the pain hit is begging him. Not my eye. Please, not my eye. He told me to shut up. Thrust the lighter forward.

Then all I remember is searing pain burning through my face and screaming at the top of my lungs as I heard my own skin sizzling. He didn't just keep it in one place either. He dragged the metal across the cheek until I was clawing at the opener and falling out onto the blacktop below. I was whimpering, wanting to cover my face but not wanting to touch it either. And then as I looked up, the guy was already starting his car. I thought he was about to back up and drive over me, so I scrambled out of the way. But he just reversed, turned a little, and then took off so fast as open passenger door slammed shut as he moved.

People were running over to me after hearing all the commotion, and I'll never forget how someone took one look at my face before a look of shock came over theirs. And then the way they shouted someone call 911, I knew that it was bad. The ambulance was there pretty quick. I thought about trying to drive myself to the hospital, but one of my coworkers told me to just get into the ambulance because it wasn't worth getting into an accident on the drive there. And when I arrived at the ER, nurses led me to a curtained-off area and asked me how it happened and how long ago. I answered as best I could, but I was still in so much shock and pain that it all came out kind of garbled.

Next came the doctor, who after examining my face, told me it was a third-degree burn and a bad one. She said the nerves were destroyed, which was why there was this weird numbness around the blackened crater that used to be a piece of my cheek. But the skin surrounding the burn was screaming with pain. The doctor also warned me that a combo of the burn's depth and where it was on my face meant that there was a big risk of infection and scarring, but at the time, I didn't care. All I wanted for was for them to take the pain away, and the rest I could think about later. They put something on my face that made it hurt, but the next thing the nurses applied was sort of a cooling gel, and that's when I started to feel some real.

relief. They also put some kind of antibiotic cream on my cheek and then put a dressing on it too. And before I was released, the doctor told me to avoid sunlight, not to touch the wound and just keep everything sterile, and then to come see a reconstructive specialist in a few days. They scheduled a follow-up, handed me a bag of medical stuff, and then sent me home with my face wrapped in bandages. And that first week was a nightmare. Work said to take as much time off as I needed and they assured me that they'd be working with the cops as they tried to track this guy down. But the wound was bad, really bad. And when I first peeled back the dressing on my face, I saw this oozing circle. I avoided mirrors, but there was no escaping it because

sometimes, even through the dressing, I could smell that infection was actually setting in. Antibiotics did keep it at bay, but that was a rough couple of days when I thought that it might actually take. And I followed the care routine obsessively, washing my hands over and over before I changed the dressings and applied the ointments. Sleep was almost impossible. I'd lie propped up on pillows to avoid the pressure on the wound, but the pain kept me awake. The pain killers dulled the worst of it, but I hated how they left me feeling like a zombie in the daytime. A few days later, I went to the reconstructive specialist's office and was told the dead tissue had to be surgically removed under local anesthesia. And that sucked hard, not just because of how gruesome it

was, but because I got to hear all about how the burn was so deep that I needed a skin graft. In the meantime, I was given a kind of gel to help reduce the scarring, but I was told that it would still be very noticeable, even in the best possible scenarios. After the graft, where skin from my thigh was stitched onto my cheek, the sight remained swollen and discolored, leaving a raised lumpy scar that tugged painfully when I spoke or smiled. After six months, the scar was a thick circle, pale and shiny with jagged edges where the red-hot metal had burned deepest. It distorted my cheek, pulling the skin taut and slightly misaligning my lower eyelid. Makeup couldn't conceal it. The texture was too uneven. The color, too stark, and in some lights it looked kind of like a

brand. And I guess that was exactly the intention. Something I could never stop seeing, that it'd remind me of who I was and what I'd done. But more than anything, it reminded me of how scared I felt walking out to that guy's car, as well as the pain I felt before I finally found it in myself to grab the door handle and tumble out onto the road. Speaking of the guy's car, the cops eventually found it burned, out on a dirt road a few days later. They said that there was evidence that he transferred into another vehicle, but since there were no cameras of any of the back roads, there was very little chance that they'd find out what his second ride had been.

All they had was the security camera footage from the store, but there was no matching the guy's face up to any known suspect. He just walked me outside, scarred me for life, driven off to a second vehicle, and then dropped off the face of the earth. But do you want to know something? not once have I thought about going looking for this guy because I believe we did do what he accused us of I do think that we killed his dog

and if that is true well what I got was generous and merciful given the circumstances sometimes I stare at it and think about how much worse it could have been the specialist says laser treatments or further surgeries might make it look a little less obvious but I know deep down that the damage is too deep for now I live with it a reminder of that day in what I used to be I apply my sunscreen but less for the actual protection and more as a way of trying to reclaim some control over what's now the most eye-catching and obvious aspect of my physical appearance and like I said I'm not ugly or anything not by any standard but I sure do have an unusual face This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp.

Shorter days don't have to be so dismal. It's time to reach out and check in with those you care about. and to remind ourselves that we're not alone. With the changing seasons and longer nights, it's a tough time for many, so this November, we're encouraging you to reach out to friends, reconnect with loved ones, and show that you care. Just like sending that first message

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or reaching out to a therapist yourself, BetterHelp makes it easier to take that first step. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash read. That's better, H-E-L-P-com slash read. I'm a park ranger, and in 2017 I was stationed at King's Canyon National Park. I bunked at the Grant Grove cabins along with my co-worker Tom, who was in a separate cabin nearby. One night after a long day of patrols, I was ready for bed and had just changed into my sleep clothes

when I heard voices coming from outside my cabin. I listened as the voices grew louder as they got closer, but they'd didn't sound calm or casual. They sounded scared, high-pitched, and desperate. Seconds later, I heard a frantic knocking on my cabin door. I grabbed my flashlight and pulled on my boots, still in my sweatpants and t-shirt as I opened the door. Now in front of me were two young women looking pale and scared. One had a jacket tied around her shoulder, and I could see blood soaking through it. She clutched her arm, wincing as her breath came through and gasped. I didn't need to ask what was wrong, as it was clear that something terrible had just happened.

I brought them inside and turned on the cabin's light. The woman with a bloody jacket collapsed onto the floor and her friend kneeled beside her. I asked to see the wound on her shoulder and when I did, my stomach started tying itself into knots. It looked like a bite wound, a deep one, but it wasn't shaped like some animal. When I asked them what the hell happened, one of the girls said that they'd heard someone walking behind. them along the path, and then when they turned to see who it was, a naked man started running at them, tackled one of them, then sank his teeth directly into her shoulder. And he didn't let go until one of the girls kicked him right in the balls. But after rolling around in pain for a

minute, the guy got up and started chasing them again. I grabbed my radio and called Tom, telling him to come over, and he was there in minutes, and he had the same reaction I did when he saw that bite pattern. I told Tom to stay with the girls and keep them safe. If whoever did that came back, he needed to protect them. I grabbed my duty belt, clip my holster, and check my pistol, and I then put on my ranger jacket and stepped outside into the night. I didn't know what I was walking into, but I knew those women needed our help,

and all of that stuff in that moment was absolutely insane, but my mind was clear. I moved slowly through the woods. My flashlight was trying to cut through the darkness. as I scanned the spaces between the trees. I had my pistol at my hand, and the safety was off, but I kept it low as I forced myself to try and breathe steady. I'd been trained for situations like this, though I'd never faced one quite so insane. A nude man was chasing women, and he'd bit one of them.

None of it made any sense, but still, here I was, and I had to find him. I followed a trail near the cabins, one that led toward a medic, that the girls had ran through. Since they both come from that direction, I figured their attacker might still be out in that area. Everything in the forest was quiet. I didn't hear any voices or footsteps, and I stopped every few seconds to listen out as my flashlight was sweeping.

And then I heard it. A rustle, like someone moving fast through the underbrush. I swung my flashlight toward the sound, but there was nothing, just branches swaying. I stepped forward. My grip was tightening on my pistol as I heard another noise to my left, closer that time. I turned and my light caught something pale moving between the trees. It was him.

Those girls were correct. And he didn't have any clothing on him. And now he was running. Not towards me, but parallel like he was almost circling me. I shouted for him to stop, but he didn't. I then tried my best to keep my light on him, but he was really fast. My flashlight bounced as I chased him, which was very disorienting. I lost sight of him for a moment, and then I saw him again, much closer than before.

I called out again, ordering him to stop, and I remember how he turned with this wild look in his eyes. And before I could react, he rushed me, and my God was he fast. A split second later, his body slammed into mine, and we both hit the ground. My flashlight was knocked out of my hand as his hands grabbed at me. I felt his breath on my face as I felt how terrifyingly strong he was. I was panicking, but I fought against it. My pistol was still in my hand. I twisted my body up, trying to free up some space for myself, but he was heavy,

pinning me down with his fingers digging into my arms. Finally, I managed to pull my arm free, and the first chance I got, I fired. The shot was loud, and his body jerked the second I pulled the trigger. A groan suddenly escaped him, and I felt his grip loosen. I pushed him off and then scrambled to my feet. Then I grabbed my flashlight and pointed at him along with my gun. He was on the ground, clutching at his stomach, groaning in pain. But I felt exactly zero sympathy for him.

If he died, so be it, because it'd either be him or me, I thought in that moment. I kept my pistol on him, but my hands were shaking. He wasn't moving much. He was just curled up and groaning in pain, and he didn't seem like a threat to me, but I still didn't take any chances. I radioed for help, telling dispatch where I was and what had happened, and after that I cuffed the guy, careful not to touch his blood. He didn't fight. He was just laying there, still groaning in pain. And I just stayed put, my light and gun still on him until help eventually arrived. Other rangers and paramedics came quickly. They took them away on a stretcher while the woman with a bite wound got it treated

and cleaned and bandaged. She obviously needed stitches, a lot of them too, and maybe even a rabies shot or something if the situation was really that bad. But they were safe. I went back to my cabin after it was all over. My hands were still trembling as I watched the dirt off my face, and I remember tossing my sweatpants into the trash because there was a big rip down the seat of them. Then I just sat on my bed staring at the wall, trying to process what the hell just happened, all while the forest outside went quiet again, like nothing had even happened. The man survived the gunshot. He later went to prison, charged with aggravated assault, and the women sent a letter addressed to me and Tom thanking us for saving them that day. The eventual toxicology report came back

saying that that guy was on a cocktail of an insane amount of crap, obviously so. who would do something so insane if not but i kept that letter in my desk though i don't read it as often as i used to half of a ranger's job is about protecting people but that night tested me in a way i'd never expected i'm glad i was there glad i could help but i also hope that i never have to face anything that insane ever again Just after midnight on August 3rd of 2019, a 21-year-old Texan man departed the home of his grandparents in the Dallas suburb of Allen and climbed into his car. Over the next two hours, he drove approximately 660 miles west, stopping twice at service stations hundreds of miles apart. During his stops, he bought gas and energy drinks, caffeinating to remain

focused during the long drive ahead. By the time the sun had risen high in the skies behind him, the man had reached El Paso, the Texan border town that straddles the international divide with its conjoined Mexican twin, Ciudad Juarez. Yet instead of heading to a specific destination, he began driving around the east side of El Paso, cruising the streets for almost an hour with seemingly no purpose whatsoever. Just before 9 a.m., the man spotted a branch of Walmart opposite Ciello Vista Mall, and after parking his car in the store's lot, he walked inside and began wandering the aisles. After maybe 20 to 30 minutes of slowly ambling around the store, the man noticed a loss prevention associate watching him from a distance.

As if embarrassed at the assumption that he was a shoplifter, the rather awkward 21-year-old headed for the fresh produce section, picked up an orange, and then purchased it at the checkouts before heading for an exit. He then stood outside the store, eating his orange before wiping his hand on his shirt and walking back to his car. For the next 20 to 30 minutes, the man sat in his driver's seat thinking about his family, his future, and his freedom. And he suddenly grabbed a laptop from his back seat and booted up the device.

Then, at exactly 10.15 a.m., he posted a thread to the website, 8chan, simply titled, It's Time. Five minutes later, the man uploaded a PDF document to the same thread, entitled, The Inconvenient Truth. Eighthans moderators quickly removed the document, but fast-fingered users were able to copy and share its contents with alarming efficiency. Moderators began to panic, and not just because control of their own website was slipping through their face. fingers, they were panicking because the document's contents contained a bio-filled diatribe of far-right conspiracies, as well as a call to violence that was as urgent as it was chilling. Site moderators rushed to inform the authorities, but it was too late, and try as they might, what was coming could not be stopped.

Back in the Walmart parking lot, now baking in the mid-morning sun, the 21-year-old climbed out of his car, then took something from his trunk. He strapped it to his body, tightening strips of nylon by yanking them through plastic slings. Then once he was done, he began walking toward the Walmart. Standing outside were a group of fundraisers from the all-female El Paso Fusion soccer team who cheerfully solicited donations from passers-by. Nearby, a woman slowly pushed a shopping cart toward the store. The 21-year-old spotted her, raised a semi-automatic Romanian-made version.

version of an AKM rifle, then fired the first shot of what would become a massacre. This is where the man becomes the shooter. After executing the woman pushing her shopping cart with a single, calmly placed shot, the shooter turned the rifle on the fundraisers and opened fire. The move took him no longer than a fraction of a second, giving the fundraisers no time to react. Then as they turned to flee, bullet after bullet tore through their bodies, as the shooter methodically aimed and fired over and over until all lay still. The store's manager, who witnessed the shooter engaging the fleeing fundraisers,

immediately issued a Code Brown to his employees. Code Brown is Walmart's designated code word for an active shooter, and employees are trained to help hide or evacuate vulnerable customers. Many fled through emergency exits to adjacent stores, others concealed themselves in shipping containers or undertaken, tables. But for many, as the shooter entered a store containing hundreds of terrified customers, there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. At exactly 10.39 a.m. and having spotted an armed man walking through the store's glass entryway, an elderly gentleman tried running. But unfortunately,

he simply was not fast enough to evade his killer's gaze. The shooter put a bullet in him, then turned his attention towards several people near the checkout area who appeared frozen with fear. He gunned each of them down, coldly and methodically, before doing the same to those sheltered in a branch of the first convenience bank. After walking his way through the store, killing as he went, the shooter reached the Walmart's eastern exit, then wandered out of the building at exactly 10.42 a.m., just three minutes after he first entered.

Upon re-entering the store's parking lot, the shooter spotted a married couple running for cover behind their car. He opened fire on them, hitting both. Then, bizarrely, he simply stopped shooting. With hundreds of people still running around the lot in blind panic, the shooter returned to his vehicle. He calmly drove to the intersection of Sun Mountain Bicount, whereupon he spotted a Texas ranger talking with an El Paso motorcycle officer, no doubt regarding the terrible events that had just unfolded. The two law enforcers watched in confusion as the shooter pulled over in the left turn lane, then climbed out of his car with his hands raised in the air.

On his approach, he told them he just shot up the Walmart opposite Cello Vista Mall. The officers then asked the man's name, and this is where the shooter becomes Patrick Wood Crucius. Crucius was born July 27th, 1998. He was a child of divorce, with his parents having separated when he was just three years old, and by his teenage years, he was living with his grandparents in the Dallas suburb of Allen. He attended Beverly Elementary School in Plano, where a former classmate, Daniel Hiao, described him as a nice kid, who played basketball and soccer during recess.

But by the time Cruceus graduated Plano Senior High School in 2017, his demeanor had shifted completely. One former high school classmate, Jacob Wilson, described Crucius as introverted, irritable, and strong-minded, often refusing to collaborate with others due to his temperament. Wilson noted that Cruceus was frequently bullied for his speech, clothing, and aloof demeanor, which led to social isolation. Another acquaintance who walked a school with Cruceus recalled him having an unsettling fascination with snakes. And following his arrest, Cruceus waived his Miranda rights, confessing directly to detectives that not only was he the shooter, but he had deliberately targeted Latino Americans during the attack.

He also confessed to the online purchase of a WASR-10 semi-automatic rifle and 1,000 rounds of hollow-point ammunition online in June 2019. When asked why he'd committed such a hideous attack on unarmed people, Cruceus directed detectives to the manifesto he'd posted just minutes before the first shot was fired, titled The Inconvenient Truth. The post included Cruceus's name, as well as information on the weapon he planned to use in his attack. He also claimed to be inspired by the Christchurch mosque shootings, which killed 51 people in New Zealand just a few months prior. Cruceus expressed a passionate approval for the murders, as well as a disdain for environmental

degradation, cultural and ethnic replacement, and what he referred to as a Hispanic invasion. While primarily focused on ethnic and racial grievances, the document also expresses fears of automation's effects on employment and blames corporations for overusing natural resources. In the immediate aftermath of the murders, media outlets, let's describe the attack as the single deadliest instance of anti-Latino violence in U.S. history. Twenty innocent people perished at the scene. Three more would pass away as a result of their injuries in the following months and years. 13 victims were taken to the University Medical Center of El Paso and another 11 to the Del Sol Medical Center. Two children, ages two and nine years

old were transferred to El Paso Children's Hospital, where thankfully, their conditions were stabilized. Later that day, President Donald Trump condemned the shooting as a hateful act of cowardice and promised to provide total support to the city of El Paso and its first responders. The president also announced that all U.S. flags, both foreign and domestic, will be flown at half-mast until sunset on August 8th. In a speech from the White House, two days after the shooting, the president stated that, in one voice, our nation must condemn racism, bigotry, and white supremacy. These sinister ideologies must be defeated. Hate has no place in America.

On February 6th of the year 2020, Patrick Crucius was charged with 22 counts of committing a hate crime resulting in death and 22 counts of use of a firearm to commit murder. He quickly waived his federal bond hearing during his first federal court appearance. and just a few months later, entered a plea of not guilty to federal charges. It became clear that Cruceus' attorney were attempting an insanity defense, as when the subjects of the death penalty arose, they began demonstrating Patrick's history of severe mental disabilities. His attorneys went on to state that Patrick was being treated with powerful antipsychotic medication,

and that at the time of his arrest, he was in a, quote, state of psychosis. The evidence for Patrick's mental illness was so compelling that in January of 2023, prosecutors announced that they would not be seeking the death penalty. But it seems this might also have been down to a sudden change of heart because just a few weeks later, Patrick Cruceus pleaded guilty to a grand total of 90 hate crimes and murder charges. Prior to his sentencing, the judge asked Patrick if he felt any remorse. after meekly nodding his head he was sentenced to 90 consecutive life sentences and in the state of Texas if each life sentence is treated as a minimum of 40 years

90 consecutive sentences would equate to exactly 3,600 years of incarceration in the months that followed what Senator Ted Cruz called an unspeakable evil there was an outpouring of tributes to the city and citizenry of El Paso In one instance, Antonio Basco declared that the funeral of his 63-year-old wife Margie would be open to anyone who wished to attend. Then on the day, hundreds of people from all over the United States arrived to pay their respects, while the funeral home was inundated with bouquets of flowers sent from every corner of the globe. One week after the shooting, a Mexican man named Jorge Chavez ran a total of 22 miles,

one for each of the people killed in the shootings, starting at the Zargoza Bridge in Juarez, Mexico, and finishing at the Walmart Memorial in El Paso, where the attack was perpetrated. In addition, the El Paso Healing Garden at Askeret Park was dedicated in August of 2021, which was later designated a National Memorial in December of 2022. During such terrible and trying times, many seek comfort and reassurance in all kinds of music, art, film and literature. But in this case, I believe it is William Carlos Williams' poem, the Second Coming, that says it best. The world is too much with us and we are with it. The violence, the hatred, the turning, and turning in the widening gyre. But there is a second

coming, not of despair, but of the small acts, the hands that reach, the voices that sing against the dark. For as long as I can remember, I've always had a passion for the outdoors. Growing up in Minnesota, my dad introduced me to hiking, camping, fishing, and fishing, and hunting at a very early age and would often take me on trips to Grand Portage, Pipestone, and St. Croix. But it wasn't until we visited Voyager's National Park when I was nine years old that I got my first good look at a U.S. Park Ranger. We were at a dock at the lake when suddenly there he was, walking tortoise in his starch dark green uniform in his wide-brimmed smoky bear hat. He had this shiny

ranger's badge on his chest and his shirt had these cool shoulder epaulettes and his utility belt was loaded up with tools for taming the wilderness. He looked ready for anything, like he could rustle a bear one minute and then guide us through a storm the next. And when I was a kid, I was in awe. He and my dad exchanged a few words and I hung on to every single one, picturing myself in that same uniform as I walked trails, steered boats, and rescued lost hikers. That ranger was the coolest person I'd ever seen. And the second I laid eyes on him, I thought, that's what I want to be when I grow up. The kind of ranger who knew every tree, every animal, and could make the vast, untamed wilderness feel just like home. And from that day forward, I'm not kidding, I was obsessed.

I started collecting park brochures and begging my dad to have a stop by the ranger station anytime we visited a park or forest, just so I could say hi and check the place out. And that's how I got myself my very own smoky bear hat, and there's a photograph of me wearing it at my 11th birthday party. I looked silly with some oversized hat on my head, but I didn't care. I was the happiest kid in the world having everyone seeing me wearing it. Since I needed a degree, I figured a good one might be environmental science, but it was volunteer seasonal work that really gave me the leg up when it came to getting hired. Working as things like park guides and visitors' assistance taught me practical skills and things like trail maintenance and water safety, so when it came to the National

Park Service's ultra-competitive hiring process, I could tailor my resume to stand out from the crowd. The NPS sent me over a questionnaire which allowed me to further showcase my knowledge of park operations, and then after acing that interview, the background checks and the physical fitness test, I finally got the call saying that I've been accepted. It was a lifelong dream come true. I was finally a U.S. Park Ranger, and my first posting was none other than the Voyager's National Park, the very same place that I'd first laid eyes on that ranger all those years before, but it wasn't always smooth sailing. About six months in, we had a kid almost drowned after he fell in X Bay. Then we had an older hiker go missing for a few days in the fall of 1997, which gave her family

and a surreal scare. But then, in the late summer of 1998, my fellow Rangers and I went through something that none of us have ever forgotten, and that we've never been fully able to explain. It was early afternoon, and I was out on patrol near Black Bay, walking a trail that I'd walked a hundred times before. I was mostly checking for signs of illegal campsites, because illegal campsites usually meant poachers, but it had been a quiet and uneventful morning, and I hadn't been a quiet and hadn't found any. Just past noon, I made my way toward a loop that had taken me back towards

my ranger station. Then, as I was maybe only a quarter of a mile out, a noise came through the trees that instantly caught my attention as something that didn't belong. I used to hear all kinds of things walking those woods, but this wasn't the rustle of a deer or the snap of a branch under a bear's paw. It was a low, croaky, but very human sounding grown, like someone was an hell of a lot of pain. I stopped dead, my hand going for my radio, because if someone was as badly heard as they sounded, I needed to call it in, quick. I yelled out, asking if anyone was there. There was silence for a second, then I heard the groan again. Closer that time. I moved toward it, stepping off the trail into the underbrush as I scanned the area ahead for movement. And then I

saw it. I saw him. He staggered out from behind a cluster of trees, maybe 30 yards ahead of me. A man, or at least what was left of one. His clothes were shredded and were hanging from his body like rags. His skin was just this complete mess of blood and burns, blackened in some places, raw and red and others. While his face looked painful and swollen, with one eye half shut and the other wide open and bloodshot, he was wheezing and stumbling forward. Then when he saw me, he let out of the face. a sound that was kind of like a half sob and half yelp. He begged me to help him, but I'm ashamed to say that for the first split second or so after I saw him, I froze. I think my brain

was trying to process what I was seeing. I had seen all sorts of injuries before, hikers with broken legs, hunters who'd gone and shot themselves by accident, but this was different. The guy looked like he'd been roasted alive. I snapped out of it and ran away. to him just as he collapsed to the ground. His skin looked slick with blood and sweat and he smelled like charred meat. And I knew not to touch him or try to move him, so I got on my radio and called in for help and then tried to verbally reassure the man that help was on the way. But by then, his breathing was coming in these short, ragged gasped. And before he passed out, he muttered something about fire and how he wasn't supposed to be there. But I didn't have time to think about any

of that. My only goal was getting him the help that he desperately needed. One of my fellow rangers arrived just minutes later riding an ATV with a skid attached, a skid being a kind of wheeled gurney that you can attach to the back of an ATV. We moved our burn victim slow and I kept talking to him and telling him to hang on, but he was already fading fast. The station was a small log building, just a couple of rooms with a radio, a first aid kit, and some basic supplies. Two other rangers, Tom and Ellen, were there waiting for us when we arrived. Ellen's face went pale. Tom cursed under his breath and ran over to help.

Tom ripped open the first aid kit, pulling out gauze, sailing, anything I could use, while Ellen ran to the radio and called for an air ambulance. We did what we could for him and tried to keep him stable, but it wasn't enough. He was in agony, thrashing weakly on the table with his voice, nothing more than a low, broken whimper. The guy's injuries were even worse than I'd thought. His arms were charred black in places, the skin cracked and oozing, and his chest was just cuts and burns, like he'd been dragged through something sharp and hot.

And I kept wondering where the hell he'd come from. There'd been no reports of a fire, no smoke in the air, and no sign of a campsite gone wrong, but here he was, looking like he'd just been immolated. The air ambulance took 40 minutes to get there, and it was the longest 40 minutes my life. We kept working on him, trying to keep him alive, but his breathing got shallower and his movements weaker, and we could see that he was slipping away. When the paramedics finally arrived, they took one look at our burned victim and got to work, loading him onto a stretcher and rushing him to the helicopter.

Then I stood there, still in shock, watching the chopper lift off into the sky. We wouldn't find out until much later, but he died in the air, somewhere over the forest and was gone by the time they got him to the hospital. The station was quiet after that. We just sat there staring at the black marks and wet spots left behind on the table, and none of us said much because there really wasn't much to say. We'd done everything we could, but it hadn't been enough. We tried to go back to work, but what happened that afternoon seemed to just hang over us. The way that he seemed to stagger out of the woods and the way that he sounded. The other rangers talked about it in these hushed voices speculating about who he was and what

had happened, a hiker who'd maybe gotten lost or a drifter who'd set himself on fire. Nobody really has any true answers. The woods can always be a very dangerous place and people get hurt out there sometimes. At least that's what we'd like to tell ourselves. Now a few weeks later, our superintendent, this guy named Bill, called me into a little. his office. He told me he got a call from a trooper with the Minnesota State Patrol. They were trying to identify our burn victim, but they kept coming up empty. No direct DNA hits, no missing person reports lined up. The guy was a ghost, a John Doe with no past. There was one lead

that the trooper had, but according to Bill, it was a strange one. The boots our burn victim was wearing were old, really old, like standard-issue U.S. Park Ranger boots from 1947 old. And Bill showed me a photo that the trooper had sent. It was scuffed and worn, but the design was unmistakable. I'd seen pictures of those very same boots and old training manuals the kind rangers used to wear way back then. The trooper didn't think that the guy was a ranger. Nobody stays in a service 40 years without getting a new pair of boots, but he figured that he'd called to check if we knew him or maybe if he was someone who'd worked here long ago. I didn't have any answers and none of us did.

We'd already gone through the park's records looking for anything that might connect, but no former rangers remained unaccounted for and no one recognized what was left to the guy's face. The boots were the only clue, and even so they raised more questions than they answered. Bill said the trooper sounded frustrated. They'd run every test they could and checked every database, but they'd come up empty at every turn. and the burns were just another dead end. No fire had been reported in the park, or anywhere nearby for that matter,

and there were no charred campsites, no scorched trees, and it was like this guy had just been burned someplace else, driven out into the woods, and then thrown from a vehicle of some kind. The coroner couldn't even say what caused the burns. He didn't think that it was a campfire, and it definitely didn't seem to be just gasoline. It was clear that the guy had been exposed to something of intense heat, but he just couldn't say what that heat was clearly from.

Now, this guy was buried in a county cemetery as just another John Doe, and the park moved on like it always does. Hikers kept coming, the seasons changed, and we just kept ourselves busy with our usual duties, but obviously I couldn't let it go. I started thinking about it too much, especially at night when I was alone in that cabin. I'd lie awake, listening to the wind in the trees, and then when I'd close my eyes. I'd see him all over again. That burned, bloodied man staggering toward me through the trees and begging for help. I'd wondered where he came from and how he got so badly burned, whether it was

people that did it to him or something else, like a lightning strike or something. And I started to quietly ask questions. I didn't want the other rangers thinking that I was losing it, but let's just say that I had some theories. I talked to some of the old-timers, rangers who had been around the park since the 60s and asked if they've ever heard of anything so weird or anything that didn't add up. Most of them just shrugged. They'd heard all kinds of stories over the years, stuff about missing hikers and strange lights or noises that didn't make sense, but nothing like our burned victim who came staggering through those trees. One guy, a retired ranger named Carl, told me something that stuck with me, though. He said that the park had places where things didn't quite feel right. He'd

never seen anything himself, but he'd heard stories from loggers and trappers, people who'd traveled through that area before the park was established. There were stories of people going missing or coming back different, like they'd seen something they couldn't explain. And I didn't really know what to make of that. Carl was a veteran ranger, a real no-nonsense kind of guy, so seeing him talk like that was quite something. And I started looking at the park in a new light. I'd find myself avoiding places I'd never thought twice about before, like the stretch of woods where I'd found our burned victim. It wasn't fear exactly, it was almost like his appearance felt like a warning, and it was one I was all years to. Years went by, and I kept my thoughts to myself. But every day

I thought about what happened to that poor guy, how scared he looked, how he died in agony. I left the service in 2018, then moved to a small house outside of Duluth. I thought leaving the park would help, that I'd finally let it go, but it seems to have followed me. I'd sit on my porch at night staring out into the dark, and I'd think about him, who he was, where did he come from, and what the hell left him all burned up like that? And I started doing my own research and digging into old records, anything I could find about Voyagers or the land before it was a park, and I found nothing about a missing ranger and nothing about a fire that could explain the burns. But I did find other stories.

Back in May of 2009, the homestead building of Death Valley's Barker Ranch just suddenly burst into flames one day. Coincidentally, Barker Ranch was the place Charlie Manson was found hiding back in the 60s after his followers went on their helter-skelter rampage, and the rangers over there at the DV National Park went to great lengths to keep the place in good shape. But then one day, the place burned down and try as they might, but the rangers over there just couldn't figure it out. It couldn't have been the brush fire because, like I said, they kept the place from getting

overgrown. Then on top of that, May isn't even nearly the hottest part of the year down there. And even when it is, things just don't burst into flames. I don't know what to believe, as I'm a former ranger and ideal in facts, but facts don't explain what I saw that day back in 98. They don't explain the boots or the burns or the way that the man looked at me like He was confused almost. I've tried to tell myself that it was just an accident.

A hiker who tried to start a campfire and tragically set himself a light somehow. Or maybe he was building a meth lab. I don't know. But when I get to thinking about it, how we found no evidence of any campfire in that direct area, I start to wonder if something else did happen to him, something we either can't explain or were not yet willing to face. I've been working as an overnight security guard at Walmart for about three years now, at this big old super center just off the highway near my hometown.

It's definitely one of the better jobs I've worked, even with all the nights involved. The pay is decent, the benefits are okay, and most nights, it's just me and another guard, chilling in the asset protection office, keeping an eye on the cameras and talking trash to keep each other awake. The store is closed from midnight to six, so it tends to be nice and quiet on the inside, but outside, that parking lots a whole different story. After a while, you get used to seeing things that make most folks' skin crawl. But this one night, about six months back, I saw what has to be the scariest thing I've ever seen on the job. I'm pretty seasoned by now, and by that, I mean, I'm not some rookie jumping at shadows,

but I'm also not some kind of wannabe cop either. My job's to watch the store, make sure nobody's breaking in or setting a place on fire, then anything outside the store walls is for the cops to handle, unless it's a direct threat to the property. We've got cameras all over the place, inside and outside, and they're good enough to catch a shoplifter snagging a TV or some kids spray painting the loading dock. But out in the far reaches of the parking lot, forget it. It's all grainy blobs and shadows past a certain point. Now, anyway, this night started out as normal. Quiet, pretty boring, really.

And then at around 2 a.m., I told my shift partner that I was headed out for a smoke break. I've been trying to quit for years, but those overnight shifts drive people to worse habits than smoking, and purely out of boredom too. My partner was back at the security desk scrolling through his phone or watching reruns of cops on YouTube, and I told him that I was stepping up for a smoke and then grab my jacket and headed for the emergency exit by the auto care center. I propped the door open with a brick, which is against policy, I know, but nobody's checking at that hour. And then I just stood outside, taking some drags and staring out into the night. The parking lot is massive, obviously, just like most Walmart parking lots are, I guess. And at 2 a.m., it's mostly empty except for a few employee cars and an RV or two.

Sometimes we get drifters or tweakers, maybe kids racing their souped-up civics, but most of the time, I don't pay them much mind. I'm a real live-and-let-live kind of guy, you know. I'm not out here to try and be a hero or boss anyone around. I just want my smoke and then I want to go back and do my job. Now anyway, I'm halfway through my smoke break leaning against the wall when I noticed these two cars out in the far corner of the lot less than 100 yards out. They're backed up to each other, trunk to trunk, very close like, you know. One's a dark SUV, the other's a beat-up sedan, maybe a Camry or something.

The SUV's got its trunk open and there's three. guy standing around it. They're not being loud or anything, but the way they're positioned, huddled, glancing around every few seconds, it's obvious they're up to no good. I've seen deals go down before. Not a lot, but I've seen them. Usually it's quick. Money changes hands, trunks close, and then they peel out. I don't call the cops unless it's blatant, like if they're waving a pistol around or something. My rule is, if it's not on Walmart property and it's not a clear threat, I let it slide. The cops got better things to do, and so do I. So I'm watching these guys, keeping my distance, just kind of being snoopy, I guess, and two of them are standing

by the open trunk, gesturing like they're showing something off, while the third guy is standing a little closer to the sedan, kind of hanging back like he's making his mind up. They're all dressed up in hoodies and jeans, nothing too flashy, but I can't make out faces or license place from where I'm at, and our cameras sure as hell wouldn't be able to either. I figured it's drugs, maybe grass, maybe something harder. It could just as easily be guns, but I don't see any obvious hardware. Not that I could from that distance that I was at, though. I'm not spooked, just curious, you know, like watching a nature documentary about shady

parking lot creatures, but that's when things take a turn. The guy who was hanging back steps forward and then leans in to look at whatever's in the the SUV's trunk. He's got his hands on his hips, very casual like, like he's inspecting something up close. And I'm thinking, all right, the deal's wrapping up, they're going to be gone soon. But then, out of nowhere, one of the other guys pulls something from behind his back, a bag or something, maybe a pillowcase, I couldn't tell, and then he throws it over the third guy's head. Before I can even process what's happening, the other SUV guy lunges forward and start stabbing him. And I mean like turning him into a sieve stabbing him over and over super quick,

bang, bang, bang, bang. The guy with his bag over his head doesn't even have time to scream. He just stumbles, struggles a little, and then he's down. Out of sight as his buddies throw him in the trunk. And I'm just frozen for a split second, cigarette dangling between my fingers thinking, oh God, help me. That was for real, wasn't it? And my heart's pounding like a jackhammer, and every instinct I've got is telling me to get the hell inside. So I dropped my smoke without stopping to stop on it, and then bolted for the emergency exit. I'd left it propped open like always, and I'm not a small guy, but I was running like I'd just seen a ghost. And as I'm pulling the door shut behind me, I hear tires screeching, and then I catch a glimpse of the SUV speeding off, red tail lights glowing as it disappeared into the dark.

I locked the door, my hand shaking so bad that I could barely get the bolt to slide, and I remember cursing under my breath, trying to make sense of what I'd just seen. Did I just witness a murder? A kidnapping? What the hell was that? And I sprint back to my security office where my partner was still parked at the desk, scrolling through his phone like it was just another Tuesday. And I yelled at him to call the cops, and he looked up at me, like, confused, wondering

what's going on. I told him what I saw. how I was pretty certain I'd just witnessed a guy getting murdered, and his eyes went wide, and then he dialed 911 right away. And I remember pacing back and forth as he handed me his phone trying to get my thought straight as I replayed everything in my head. And it all happened so fast, maybe ten seconds from the bag going over the guy's head to the SUV peeling out, and I can still picture the way the guy's arm moved.

That quick, jerky, stabby motion, like something right out of a horror move. movie. The cop showed up about 15 minutes later. I told them everything I saw, which honestly wasn't all that much, and there were three guys, two cars, one got stabbed a bunch, and then the SUV took off. I didn't see any faces, didn't catch any plate numbers, and I didn't hear any names either. They start asking me a million questions. What kind of bag was it? How many times did the guy get stabbed? Did I hear anything? Did I see any blood? But I had nothing for it was too far too dark and it all happened too quick i felt kind of useless like i should have seen more or done more but then what was i supposed to do run out there with my flashlight and my walkie-talkie

we're not armed on shift and they don't train us for anything like that either i'm just a guy making sure nobody steals anything or spray paints the walls and after we talked the cops seemed more interested in the security footage so me and my partner pulled up the feeds for the exterior cameras. We've got a couple pointed at the parking lot, but like I said, they're not great. The cars were too far out, right at the edge of the lot where the lights barely reached them. All the footage showed were two blurry shapes and some movement, but you couldn't make out details, no faces or plates, really nothing useful at all. The cops were frustrated, but obviously not with us. They took a copy of the footage anyway and said they'd check the sedan that was still

out there. After they left, my partner and I just sit there, quiet for a while. He was all right, but I was pretty shaken up. I kept thinking about how fast it happened. One second, the guy was alive, probably thinking that he was making a quick deal. Then the next, he's got a bag over his head and a knife in his gut, and it was all over and done in seconds. It was just crazy to me. How does that even happen? Who were those guys? Was it a setup, a betrayal, some kind of gang thing. Sometimes it frustrates me that I'll never know. And the cops never really followed up, at least not with me. And I check the news for days, but there's really nothing. No reports or arrests. And I still work the overnight shift, but I don't smoke outside anymore. I use those

zin things now, those little pouches, and I stay in the break room if I need a fix. But every time I walk by that emergency exit, I'm reminded of what happened that night and how I watched it all go down. I've seen a lot in this job, fights, thefts, you name it, and they're forgotten a week after. But what happened that night is something I know, I'll never forget. Back in the day, I had this buddy named Mike. We used to drink at the same bar. Then after we got talking following a game one night, we became regular drinking partners. And Mike turned out to be a pretty solid guy, the kind that you could count on to have your back in an emergency.

We'd talk about all kinds of things whenever we'd shoot the breeze over a few beers. You know the stuff. sports, work, women, news, but after a while, I realized there was this one thing about Mike that I didn't know much about, his past. I knew that he grew up in the southwest, and I knew that he moved over to New Mexico for a while, but it hit me that I had no idea why he moved or what he did down there. It turns out he used to be a park ranger out in the desert someplace, but then instead of talking about the job or telling me a few stories, Mike says to me, I, um, I, um, I don't really like talking about it.

I didn't ask any more questions. I can't say that I was curious, but I figured that he'd talk about it when he was good and ready. We were living up near Sue St. Marie at the time, right next to the Canadian border, so the fact that Mike had moved across the country got me thinking. He's had all that nice dry weather down there in the south, and for some reason he'd traded it for some cold gray corner of Michigan.

It was just weird, and I couldn't stop myself one. wondering why. But like I said, I didn't press him on it. One night, we were at our usual spot, a bar called Rusties, where the bar top was always sticky, and the jute box only played Springsteen and Seeger. It was getting late, and I guess I had a few too many beers, because I remember my curiosity suddenly getting the better of me, and I started asking Mike about his Ranger days. And his face changed. Then after a second, he said he was posted someplace dry and sandy, and and then went quiet.

I kept asking questions, like what the job was like and why he quit, but he shut me down quick. He said he didn't want to talk about it, and I felt this swell of regret rise in my chest. His voice wasn't mean, just firm, and I got the message, and I dropped it and never brought it up again. Now, years passed, and Mike and I stayed buddies. We graduated to going to fishing on the weekends, and then catching games when we could afford the tickets. He never talked about his ranger days, and I kept my word about never asking.

But then one night, out of the blue, I guess he just changed his mind. We were at my place, sitting on the back porch with a couple of drinks when Mike leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and asked if I wanted to hear a ghost story. He sounded serious, but from the way he said it, I figured he was about to tell me some kind of campfire story. But in actual fact, it was the story of why he left the park service and why he moved to Michigan and why he never talked about it. Mike said it all happened back in 1990, his last year as a ranger. He was stationed down in Carlsbad National Park, a place that's all red rocks, caverns, and trails through sand. And the way he described it, Carlsbad was empty most of the time and it was just him and a few

other rangers patrolling miles upon miles of sanding nothingness. The days were hot, and, and and the nights were cold, and the work was mostly routine stuff. He'd checked trails and make sure hikers didn't get lost, all while keeping an eye out for poachers or vandals. He said he liked it at first, how he didn't mind being alone and how the desert gave him plenty of time alone with his thoughts. One day, late in the afternoon, he was out on a trail near the caverns. He was walking along on a day like any other,

when he suddenly saw a guy come over a ridge. The man was limping, moving slowly. low like he was hurt. Mike's first thought was that the guy needed help, that maybe he'd twisted an ankle or gotten bit by a rattlesnake or something. So he started jogging toward him, calling out to see if he was okay. But then, when he got closer, something felt off. The guy was obviously injured in some way, but Mike said the way he was looking at him made him nervous. He wasn't looking at him in a oh thank god i've found help kind of way it was this sort of cold stare mike said he once again asked the guy if he needed help but in response the guy pulled a pistol from the back of his pants

and pointed it right at him of all the things mike said he was expecting having a gun thrust in his face was near the bottom of the list somewhere he had his own sidearm standard issue for rangers in case of wildlife for other trouble, but the guy had caught him off guard, and there was no time to draw. Mike said that, in a voice that sounded hard but desperate, the man told him to take off his uniform, and once he said that, Mike's mind started racing. The guy obviously wanted to disguise himself as a ranger, probably to get away from whoever was after him. The people chasing him could have been cops, but down there, I figured they could have been cartel or something as well. The guy kept the gun aimed at Mike's head and told him to take off his belt first,

clearly wanting to make sure Mike was disarmed. But Mike wasn't stupid, and he knew how things would play out if he did. If he gave up his uniform, the guy wouldn't just let him walk away. A real ranger could blow the guy's cover and tell people he wasn't legitimate, so Mike figured the second that he stripped down and had his uniform taken away, he'd get a bullet in the head. The guy wasn't messing around. He said if Mike didn't take off the uniform, he'd shoot him and take it off his body.

But Mike could tell that the guy didn't want to do that. Blood on the uniform would ruin the disguise and make it useless to him. Mike said he stood there, staring down the barrel of a gun with his heart pounding in his chest. He kept saying he couldn't, over and over, telling the guy he was too scared to move, and that he'd have to take the uniform off himself. It was a gamble, but Mike was banking on the guy not wanting to shoot. The man started moving closer, his gun still pointed at Mike's head. Then, out of nowhere, they both heard a low rumble, like an engine coming from the hills

behind the armed man. The man turned his back to look just for a split second, but that was all Mike needed. He moved fast, ducking low and lunging at the guy. The gun went off, but the bullet missed and kicked up dust a few feet away. Mike grabbed the guy's wrist, the one holding the gun, then, and after a brief struggle on their feet, they ended up going to the ground. They started wrestling, rolling in the dirt with the gun still in the guy's hand. Mike was bigger and stronger, and the guy was already hurt, but he fought like a cornered animal.

Mike couldn't get the gun away. The guy's grip was too strong, and as he thrashed and bucked, he kept trying to point the barrel towards Mike's stomach and chest. Mike used his weight, pinning the guy down, but he couldn't get a good swing in to knock him out. his free hand was useless for punching the angle was wrong and awkward and the guy kept bucking underneath him and so mike did the only thing he could think of he clamped his free hand over the guy's mouth and nose and started to suffocate him the guy's eyes went wide and panicked as he realized that he couldn't breathe he started thrashing harder but mike pressed and held on he didn't want to kill the guy just to make him pass out so he could get his gun away and cuff him

but the guy just wouldn't stop fighting. Mike kept his hand there pressing hard, feeling the guy trying to suck air through his palm, and then suddenly, after almost a minute or so of doing this, he stopped. The guy's body went limp, but his eyes were still wide open and just staring up at the sky. Once he was still, Mike rolled off of him, panting,

shaking from exertion, and the reality of what had just happened set in. He checked the guy's pulse. It was still there, but it was weak, and he then grabbed the guy's gun, made it safe and then tucked it into his belt and used his radio to call for help. Not long after, another ranger showed up in a truck, which could have been the one they'd heard earlier, and they got the guy loaded up and back to the station. From there, an ambulance took him to a hospital a couple of hours away, and Mike thought

that that was the end of it. But it wasn't. The guy didn't wake up. Doctor said that his brain had been starved of oxygen. He was in a coma, hooked up the machines, and his chances of coming back the same as he was before were slim. They tried to figure out who he was and put out all kinds of calls to various agencies,

but nobody claimed him. He had no ID, no family, no records, nothing. And then after a few months, the hospital pulled a plug. And just like that, the guy was gone. Mike didn't go to prison or anything, and in fact he was cleared of all wrongdoing. He said the investigation was open and shut, self-defense, pretty plain and simple. The guy had a gun, threatened to kill him, so Mike did what he had to do. But that didn't make things easier on him.

He said all the cliches about taking a man's life were true, even if he knew in his heart that it was justified. He said he kept seeing the guy's face, the way his eyes looked when he realized he couldn't breathe. he hadn't meant to kill him but he did and so it ate at him mike said that he started having nightmares just a few weeks after he'd wake up in a cold sweat hearing the sound of that gunshot in his head he said he felt haunted like the guy's ghost was following him around and sometimes at night he'd feel like someone was even watching him standing just outside the window of his cabin He knew that was just his mind playing tricks, but it felt real. Too real, and that's why he quit.

He couldn't stay out there, not with those memories. And so he packed up and left New Mexico and traveled as far from the desert as he possibly could without ending up in Canada. He didn't tell anybody about the move, not even his family, just buried it deep down inside of himself and tried to move on. But he said you don't move on from something like that. Well, not really. You see, it stays with you. like some splinter under the skin that you can't get out. When Mike finished his story, I remember him stubbing out his cigarette before he took a long pull

from his beer. He didn't look at me. He just sort of stared out into the darkness, but there was a calm about him, like he was glad that he'd gotten it off his chest. I didn't know what to say. I mean, what the hell do you say to something like that? So I just sort of sat there, letting the silence hang in the air until Mike finally changed the subject. after that night Mike didn't bring it up again and I didn't either we went back to our usual route fishing beers and sports but after he told me his story I saw him in a different light he was still the same Mike quick with a joke and always ready to lend a hand but there was a kind of darkness about him one that I hadn't really noticed before I guess that's what happens when you take a life

even if you don't mean to it changes you in a way that doesn't always show on the outside. 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.