The Lets Read Podcast - 356: THE SWAMPS HELD AN EVIL CURSE | 9 TERRIFYING True Scary Stories / Rain Ambience | EP 342

Episode Date: July 28, 2026

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

There's no shortcut for saving time, but saving money is simple. Just combine your car and home insurance with Bel Air Direct and save. Get a quote at bellair direct.com. My grandpa was born just under 100 years ago back in 1927 when Canton was still a major stop at the Mississippi Central Railroad. He and his family lived on a little plot just off the square where they could hear those trains rolling day and night. My great grandpa, Job, made money loading and unloading railroad. wagons, and it made him a good living for a while. But then the Depression hit, and from about 1999 onwards, things got worse and worse for folks around Madison County. Great-grandpa Job

used to get odd jobs fixing the tracks when he could, but the railroad company didn't need him at the roadhouse every day like they used to, and he was out of work for months at a time. My great-grandpa took to washing and ironing for a dollar or two a load from the better-off families in town, while us kids, me and my two sisters, helped tend a garden of okra, green beans, corn and and tomatoes. Supper was mostly cornbread and whatever stew meat they could afford, and sometimes money got so tight that they'd watered down condensed milk for the little ones and mashed up leftover greens and water to make a kind of grassy soup, which everyone hated. There was a food program in town and folks lined up for hours to get their hands on things like meal, grits, salt pork,

or cheese, and Grandpa said if it wasn't for those, some folks would have straight up starved. Grandpa said he remembered how summers used to be fun, but by 1936, they were all about chores. He and his sisters used to chop cotton, pick berries, or help neighbors around their home for a nickel or two apiece. At least the neighbors who hadn't already moved over to Jackson to seek better opportunities. People started leaving. The town started dying, and it might have even snuffed out the town altogether if it wasn't for the silver linings that World War II brought. It probably sounds pretty dark, but the worst war in human history made a lot of folks a lot of money. Not least, the fighting-age men around Madison County who were itching to get back at the Japanese with Uncle

Sam lining their pockets. The railroads were busier than ever, and for a while my grandpa got to work shifts with his dad, loading and unloading railroad cars down at the roadhouse. And it seemed like things were finally starting to look up. But right as they were, some really sinister stuff started happening around town. It started when a whole bunch of German prisoners of war got moved into a place called Camp Clinton just south of town. Grandpa said that there were about 3,000 POWs in total, and he'd sometimes see them working farms or resurfacing roads while under armed guard. People whispered about them, said they were dangerous, and that if they ever broke out somehow, that they might descend on Canton and wreak murder. And I guess people were just scared as all, because there was never any

mass breakout attempt down at the camp. But two soldiers did manage to escape, and when they did, there was major panic. There were American soldiers searching all over the country, and grandpa said he remembered them driving around Canton at night, driving jeeps with searchlights attached to the backs instead of machine guns. They searched section by section, eliminating areas and closing in on the escapees until there was only one place they hadn't searched. The swamps out near the Pearl River, just north of the reservoir. Grandpa said it really spooked folks around town because despite the fact that there was no other place the POWs could possibly be, a thorough search of the whole damn swamp didn't turn up a single trace of either escaped prisoner. Soldiers were heard saying how it was like

the two Germans had disappeared without a trace and that they might have gotten themselves eaten by gaiters after waiting through the wrong patch of water at night. But that wasn't the only thing that had people around Canton spooked. Some of the guards from Camp Clinton used to head into Canton to buy cigarettes or candy were to sink a few beers at one of the bars when they were off duty. Now, one night, a couple of soldiers were in a bar around closing time when they started telling the bartender about something they saw out in the swamp. They were out doing some kind of nighttime search for the two Germans, trying to catch them

on the move when they thought it was safe to do so. And then as they'd been paddling up and down in the dark, keeping their eyes and ears peeled for any sign of escapees, one of them saw something which turned their blood to ice. Three ghostly spirits seemed to hover on a nearby bank for a moment, causing one of the soldiers to gasp. He pointed them out to his fellow soldiers, but by the time they'd shown their big searchlight on them, the group of pale figures had disappeared. Apparently the soldiers his two friends believed his imagination had just gotten the better of him, and they poked fun at him for being such a scaredy cat. But the soldier was adamant that he hadn't imagined anything, and I guess the bartender must have emphasized that in his retelling because rumors started going

around town that the swamps were haunted. Grandpa said that at first, and embarrassingly enough, he believed the rumors to be true. He was 15, but while he was old enough to work and take care of things around the house, his imagination was still ripe enough for a story like that to take root. After all, those POWs were too hardened veterans of the Africa Corps. They'd survived war. So the chances that they'd fallen victim to nothing but some swamp lands seemed very unlikely. And even if they were dead, there'd be some piece of them left behind to prove it, even if they were only the parts that the gaiters wouldn't eat. And so if those two veterans had just disappeared, what other explanation could there be, if not some kind of terrifying supernatural one?

Folks started warning their kids to stay away from the swamps, and even some grown adults stayed away from the area at night, but not everyone did. An older kid named George Jackson, who grandpa said was around 17 at the time, told everyone that he was going to head into the swamps at night to find out if the ghost rumors were true. His buddies begged him not to go, but George, who claimed that he was an expert in and all things related to the spirit world, so that there was nothing that they could do to hurt him and how they were merely spectral apparitions of dearly departed souls.

He said that he might see his old grandpa out there, wandering among the cypress trees, and there was nothing anyone could do to talk him out of it. And so off he went, into the swamps under the cover of darkness, and he was never seen again. Yet another search party was sent out into the swamps, Only this time, it was made up of deputies and volunteers. They search high and low for young George Jackson,

and they even dredge the swamp in places that they were able to in hopes of bringing up his body. But no matter how hard they searched, not a single trace of the boy was found anywhere. Now, naturally, the whole Madison County was freaked out by the second sudden disappearance, because while two POWs not being found at least made sense to them, and having George Jackson vanished like he did

meant something really bad must have been happening out there in that swamp. And some folks said the escaped Germans were to blame, how they'd probably murdered young George after he happened across their little hiding place. And others said that it must have been those ghosts spotted by the soldiers and how George must have discovered that they weren't so harmless after all. But then to their shock, it wasn't even a week later that a gator-trapper made a horrifying discovery

while skinning and gutting his prey, because inside the animal's stomach where human remains. Folks kind of assumed it was poor George in there, and so there was a strange sense of relief when scraps of clothing found in the animal's stomach were determined to have come from a German military uniform, and people believe George might still be out there lost in the swamps and would find his way out again any day now. But sadly, that wasn't to be, and George wasn't the last one to go missing before everything came to a head. About a week after the German POW's body was found by that gator trapper, a man was driving through the area at night when he stopped his car at the side of the road that ran parallel

to the swamps. No one knew for sure why he stopped, whether it was for a bathroom break or to check his tires or something. All they knew is that he didn't get back into the driver's seat and his car was found, idle but still running, by a highway patrol cop the next morning. There was a brief search of the area, with sheriff's deputies patrolling the water's edge with our shotguns in hand, but none strayed too deep into the swamps, not even during daylight hours, because by then, there was no doubt. A very dark and dangerous affliction had befallen Madison County's cypress swamps, and no one wanted to be its next victim.

But unfortunately for one person, they found themselves in the very unemiable position of being just that, the next potential victim. Waylon Jones was in his 20s at the time and thanks to a medical condition had been rejected from joining military and serving overseas. He made money by helping out women whose menfolk had gone over to fight in Europe or the Pacific, but it seems old Wayland's mama forgot to impart a very valuable lesson to him, and that was not to touch what didn't belong to him. It turns out Waylon was having an affair with a taken woman, and a very risky one at that, because if the woman's husband found out what's going on, either personally or via a letter, then he'd no doubt enlist his family, his cousins, and his cousin's cousins,

and skinning old Wayland Raw before using whatever was left as gator bait. Wayland's lover lived over in Sandhill, and he'd go visit her after dark. He'd stay until late, late enough, so no one would see him returning and start asking questions. But this one night, Waylon noticed a whole bunch of soldiers guarding the bridge. across the reservoir, but not just soldiers either. There were deputies too, and almost every deputy over at the department was either a friend or an acquaintance of his lover's husband. Wayland knew that he couldn't cross the bridge and that he'd have to find another way to get back to Canton that didn't involve walking for miles at a time along dark and dusty roads.

And so he decided to wade through the swamps up near the Pearl River. Wayland knew well that the folks had been disappearing out there and that waiting through the swamps at night was very risky. But if he crossed that bridge and those deputies figured out that he'd be staying late at the lovely Mrs. Garrity's place, he was going to wish that he was dead before they were finished with him. And so he chose the swamps instead. Wayland said he'd never been so frightened in all of his life, knowing that he might just run into whatever evil was inhabiting the swamps face to face. He moved quickly and as quietly as possible, making sure to give any gaiters a nice wide berth, and then about halfway through, he started hearing this voice

carrying through the trees. Wayland said at first it was nothing but a whisper, and he figured it might just be a gator hissing off in the distance. But then he heard it again, and that time it was clear as crystal. Someone off among the trees was saying, help me. Waylon said he froze on the spot knowing that he should run, but also knowing that he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did. He didn't have any scruples about lying with another man's wife, but apparently he wasn't all bad, because instead of just running off and making sure his own skin was saved, he went creeping off into the direction of that voice, the one saying, help me, anybody please, over and over. Wayland said he crept forward with nothing but the moonlight to guide him. When he suddenly saw a figure

or right next to a tree, standing on top of what appeared to be some kind of rickety old chair. The man was naked as the day he was born, and even in the moonlight, Whalen could see how badly the man had been beaten and possibly even tortured, too. He said his body looked like a roadmap of cuts and purple bruises, and that his face was so swollen that at first it was impossible to recognize him. But then as he got close, Waylon realized who it was. It was young George Jackson. But when Whalen asked what the hell had happened to him, all George said was, I'm sorry, just as Whelan noticed the rope around his neck.

Suddenly, a leg flew out from behind a tree, kicking away the chair the naked George was standing on before the air was filled by the sound of the poor boy, choking to death. And before Whelan had a chance to cut him down with the knife that he was carrying, he was set upon by a tree. of white, ghostly figures who maintained absolute silence as they tried to wrestle him to the ground. Whalen was beaten and strangled as his attackers tried to pin him to the ground, and he realized that they were not trying to kill him. Not yet anyway. Instead, they wanted him alive. He later said that they believed that they caught him unawares, but Whalen was already holding his knife when they attacked, and so no sooner had they laid hands on him, but Whelan started swinging the blade wildly, slashing and stabbing at all three attackers. They were evidently

unprepared for such violent resistance, as Waylon managed to best two of the men before the third one ran off into the swamps, still bleeding from the cuts Whelan had given him. But the thing that really gives me the creeps and that gave my grandpa the creeps upon hearing the story was how those three attackers didn't make a single sound, even when Waylon drove his knife into one of their chests. And that's all besides what those three men look like, which is something else which has given me the willies, even since the day that I heard the story told. Much like the so-called spirits that soldier thought that he saw out in the swamps while he was looking for those German POWs, the bodies of the men who attacked Waylon appeared a bright white. It turns out that

before they'd go hunting for people out there, they'd strip down to their drawers and paint their bodies with paste made out of water and white chalk, but neither Whalen or anyone else around town, including the sheriff, could figure out why those monsters stayed quiet the whole time. I call them monsters only because my grandpa used that word, but he made it clear that they earned that nickname through their actions alone, and not entirely their appearances. They were just men, flesh and blood like you and me, but since nobody claimed them as kin or even claimed to have seen either man before in their lives,

nobody figured out who they were or where they're from. It was like they just appeared in those swamps, with the sole purpose of capturing, torturing, and killing folks in the worst ways imaginable. As you can imagine, the whole Madison County was in connipions over Whalen's story, not least because a bunch of deputies were able to head out into the swamps, find those chalk-painted bodies, and confirm his story was true. Some folks said that they must have been the journey,

German POWs because who else would go about murdering people like that and doing such strange things and painting themselves white. It sure explained why no one recognized them too. But officially, Camp Clinton would admit to no other escapees and insisted the murderers could not have been German captives. But if that really was true, then who the hell were those murderous animals out there? All kinds of rumors went around among my grandpa and his friends, how these men were really monsters or children of the swamp and other such nonsense like that. And he said it made it all the worst by the lack of any kind of official story. Now, this was way back during the war, so the Office of Censorship was in full effect.

They'd already sent letters around to every newspaper in the country advising them to keep their stories positive or face closure. And this meant the editor of the Madison County Herald didn't dare print the story of what happened out in those swamps or the stories of the folks who went missing. And that meant that no one really knew what happened out there for many years till the Office of Censorship closed at the end of the war, and people were able to piece together what had happened, my grandpa included. Grandpa ended up moving away from Mississippi to seek his fortune elsewhere. But as long as he lived, he never forgot the story of poor George Jackson,

those German POWs, and the ghostly figures who made the swamps, they're human. Hunting Grounds. My name's Lucy, and I'm a listener from the UK, and this isn't strictly my own story, but it's one that deserves to be told, and by the time you've finished reading, I'm confident that you'll agree with me. One Sunday morning, back in November of 2021, a friend of my dad's got up for work. David had worked as a cabby for many years, so he knew the job as well as anyone, and he knew better than to work late on a Saturday night and risk someone puking this taxi or trying to do a runner. And so instead, he used to skip the late weekends and work the mornings, which were much less rowdy and only slightly less busy.

And that Sunday in particular was bound to be a good earner because it wasn't just any old Sunday. It was Remembrance Sunday. Remembrance Sunday in the UK is basically like Veterans Day in the U.S. A day to remember our war dead and pay our respect. to them. Now, a lot of people choose to stop and stand still at 11 a.m. the same time that the guns fell silent in World War I and have a minute silence. And a lot of people get together at places like cathedrals or army places to lay wreaths and say prayers and stuff like that. Now, people sometimes have a drink after the services too. Nothing too wild, just a pint or two with old mates and memory of the fallen. But that means people needed taxis, so it was an ideal time for Dave to hop in his cab

and go looking for fares. Now, from about 10 o'clock onwards, David started getting jobs, ferrying people around the city to various church services. But he also got jobs taking one or two groups to the cathedral, which is where this big Remembrance Day ceremony was being held, probably the biggest one in the city, too. Some of the people were wearing bits of old military uniform,

like berets and stuff, where they were obviously veterans of old wars or often paid tribute to their old pals. And so Dave's having this little chat with them, asking where they served and when and all of that. And then, at what must have been about 1045, he gets a job taking someone else to the cathedral, presumably for the service. He pulls up outside a house not far from the city center and a guy gets in the back carrying a large, heavy-filled backpack. He tells Dave that he wants to go to the cathedral, so off they go. As they're driving, Dave asks the man in the back if he's attending.

the Remembrance Day service. He says yes. They make a bit more small talk, and along the way somewhere, Dave runs into a bit of traffic. It turns out there's road work ahead of him, so half the road is closed off, and traffic's been brought to a near standstill as everything's been reduced to one lane. Dave realizes they're going to be stuck there for maybe five to ten minutes, and then he looks at his clock and realizes if they stay there, the man in the back is going to be late for the service. Dave turns to his passenger and says something like, I think you're cutting it a bit late here, mate. I'd just get out and walk if I were used so you don't miss the service.

The guy is obviously a bit annoyed, but he doesn't get angry with Dave or anything because I imagine that he knew he'd mucked up by not calling the cab earlier. Dave even said that he wouldn't charge him for how far they'd gone because it hardly seemed fair if it was him who got them stuck in traffic. And this was his first clue that something wasn't quite right. because the fella didn't so much as bat an eyelid at the prospect of a free lift. Normally, people either say, oh, no, that's not necessary, or at the very least, well, thanks a lot,

that's so kind. But this fella didn't offer so much as a single word of thanks, and instead started looking around as of trying to figure out where he was. Dave later said that he thought the guy was just annoyed about being late for the service because he looked and sounded kind of foreign and might not have known how to get there. And so as he's looking around as if the scoping out or route, Dave starts explaining how all he has to do is walk straight down the road in front of him, and he can't miss the cathedral because it's so big that he'll see it if he just keeps walking.

Now, you'd think the bloke would be very interested in that information, considering that he's about to be late for this thing. But apparently the same thing happened as when Dave mentioned the free ride. The guy in the back didn't seem remotely interested and just kept on looking through the windows like he was scoping the place out. Now, after about a minute of this, Dave notices the guy looking over at this huge complex of blue-gray buildings

which stood on the other side of the dual carriageway. He asked Dave what it is, and when he told him it was the women's hospital, Dave listened in total confusion as the guy basically said, okay, drop me off there instead. Dave told him he was better jumping out of the car right there, but the guy insisted on being dropped off in front of the hospital

so he could walk from there. Now, he suddenly didn't seem all that fuss about making it to the ceremony on time. He seemed more concerned with the fact that there was a maternity hospital right there next to him. And I think it was about then, when Dave realized the man in the back of his cab was up to something. He didn't know if it was drugs, cheating, or something more sinister, but whenever a passenger is funny about where they're going and what they're doing, it's usually because they're up to no good, obviously. But what did a fellow with a big heavy backpack want to be dropped outside the woman's hospital for?

And as he asked himself that question, I think it dawned on Dave what a bad position he was in. He didn't make a fuss or start asking questions, but what he did do was lock his cab's doors. Meaning when they stopped, the fellow wouldn't be able to get out without giving an actual good reason why he'd changed his destination.

If he showed him what was in the bag, he'd let him out. If he didn't, well, that was a different story. Dave waits his turn to go and then turns around and takes the road into the women's hospital car park. Now, he must have been sweating buckets, and somehow he kept us cool. And then when they stopped outside the front doors, the men in the back didn't even try to pay. And this is a private hire cab that wasn't an Uber where you either pay cash or pay by card. and by the end of the ride, it doesn't automatically come out of your account

or however that works on Uber. Now, most people, when they're not doing runners, pull out their wallet or some cash as they come to the stop. This fella just grabbed his bag and reached for the door handle before they'd even come to a stop yet. But when he realized the car was locked and Dave wasn't going to let him out, he reached into his bag

and detonated the bomb that was in there. The explosion blew all the, the windows out and sent all the bits of metal the bomb contained out with it. Now you can watch the CCTV footage of the blast on the internet, so maybe go watch it instead of me trying to describe it. But my point is, it doesn't look like there's any way in hell that either David or his passenger could have survived it. Everything inside looked like it had been blown to pieces. But somehow, I suppose by some kind of miracle with it being a Sunday, one of the cab's front doors opens just a smidge, and Dave, the taxi driver, comes stumbling out, probably with his head

banging and ears ringing. Now, he's obviously had the life frightened out of him because he tries to almost run away from the scene at first. But then a fella in a high-vis jacket goes running over to him to help, and Dave stops trying to run. He's got his hand on the back of his head the whole time, I suppose because it was burned, but also because he was checking to see if the back of his head hadn't been blown off. It hadn't, thankfully, and if you can believe it, I don't even think Dave even spent a single night in the hospital. I think the only fairly serious wounds that he got was that bit of his ear was cut off by a piece of metal from the bomb. That, and his hearing's been quite seriously affected by how loud the explosion was. On the other hand, the passenger in the back seat,

It was blown to bits. And although someone tried to drag him out of the car thinking the whole thing had been some kind of accident, the whole car was soon on fire with flames licking out the windows and his body being burned along with the car. Finding out was horrible. My dad knew it was Dave before it was officially named because he recognized Dave's car from some of the first images released. But to find out who the bomber was, we had to wait and it was a very confusing process. First of all, we heard his name was Enzo Almeni. But then it was announced that he changed his name while living in the UK

and that his real name was Imad al-Swilmin. We were then told that he was a refugee from Syria, but then that was quickly corrected when someone found out that he was Jordanian and that he might have been trying to cheat the asylum system by claiming that he was from Syria, which had a war going on at the time. Everyone was obviously thinking, this guy's a terrorist, nothing else to it. But then there was a weird twist to everything. Firstly, Imad had been sectioned not long after arriving in the UK,

after walking around town waving a knife and shouting at people. And for the folks who don't know what sectioned means, it's when someone is detained under the Mental Health Act, not arrested as such, but detained for their own safety. He spent some time in a unit, took some medications probably, and then when he gets out, Imod decides that he wants to convert to Christianity. Apparently he got involved with the Church of England saying that he wanted to settle into his new home by taking the local religion and changing his name.

And then when we found out which church it was, it was literally chilling because it wasn't a church. The place Imod had been planning on attacking was the very same place he'd been going to undergo his conversion. And as he could imagine, everyone found it outrageous, but it was. was all a massive headache for everyone, too, because who was this fella? Was he like an actual terrorist or just a mental case? And then from what I can tell, it was a case of him not being a terrorist, and then suddenly was a terrorist. I think he would have done or said just about anything to stay in the United Kingdom, to the point some people think that he fake that mental breakdown with a knife, so they wouldn't be able to deport him because of all that human rights

stuff. It definitely looked like he faked his conversion, or that he at least just changed his mind about it, because he stopped going to the cathedral a few months after he was finally confirmed as a Christian. Apparently he had been baptized two years before, but the priests or vickers or whoever wanted to make sure that he was for real. And they had him coming back for years before they finally confirmed him. But it seems that that might have been nothing more than attempt to trick the immigration services, because like I said, he stopped visiting not long after. And I heard that two days before the attack, Imad called his brother in America and told him he was planning on doing something bad, quote unquote, as he put it. And that proves the whole thing was planned ahead.

Then when the police searched his flat, they found evidence that he'd been building the bomb for months before the attack was ready to go. And the fact that he chose to attack on a Sunday, and remembrance Sunday too, has a scary sort of significance to it considering all the conversion stuff. And then we found out that after his flat was searched, police found a prayer mat and a Quran and all of that, so he obviously switched back to Islam before he tried to go through with his plan. Now, I just wanted to say that some of my best mates in school growing up were Muslims, and the fella in the shop around the corner from us is from Yemen, and he's one of the nicest guys you could hope to meet. And so this isn't me trying to bash anyone by telling the story,

as I know they're not all like that, and I know not all asylum seekers are out to take advantage of a system, meant to help people. But we've got to be more careful. Because psychos like Imod are out there willing to do and say anything to try and cheat that system. And when they don't get their own way, they're finally told no and that they're going to be deported. They're going to lash out and try to hit people where it hurts the most. And like in Imod's case, when he saw a maternity hospital with newborn babies and decided it was the perfect place to take a bomb. My name's Annie. I'm from Pittsburgh. Pennsylvania, but for the last 20 years or so, I've been working as a wetlands ecologist down here in

Florida's Big Cyprus National Preserve. And after I got my degree in environmental science up at UPenn, I moved down to Florida to do a master's on, and this is putting it as simply as possible, how water levels mess with Cypress domes. And then after a few years, filling out wetland permits and monitoring on behalf of state agencies and consultants, I spotted an NPS. job on the USA Jobs website. Government research jobs are always uber competitive, mainly because you get paid to do the thing that you're super into all day, but that doesn't stop anyone from throwing their hat into the ring, myself included.

And with my fieldwork experience giving me an edge, I managed to land a permanent spot at Big Cyprus. My work involves a lot of staring at spreadsheets and liaising with state agencies, but I get to do a fair amount of field work, too, which has always been my favorite. Sometimes I'm out there tracking water levels or hunting and mapping invasives like the Brazilian pepper. And then sometimes I help plan prescribed burns to keep the pine woods healthy, or all do counts on wading birds or alligators trying to figure out if the canal plugging and rehydration projects are actually working and aren't just a waste of time and money.

It's hard, sweaty work, and the bugs are by far the worst part. But keeping this wild piece of land healthy makes it worth all the blood, sweat, and tears, even when things get dark out there. And this is the story of the darkest, most disturbing incidents of my entire career. Whenever we're doing field work out in the deep swamps, we rely on airboats to get around, and at the time, mine was a 14-foot aluminum flat bottom powered by a big old aircraft engine and with one of those big propeller cages on the back, you probably know the thing. It was loud as hell, but that kept the gators away from the boat,

and since it could get you places a more traditional boat couldn't, it was much more preferable to paddling out in the canoe, especially for stuff like collecting mud samples. I used to head out first thing in the morning when the waters were still calm, and then after picking out a sampling site, I'd head out with what we call ponars, which are these small hinged boxes that are probably better to be. described as grabbers. You lower it down from the bottom, let it sink into the muck, and then a few

days later, when it's nice and full, you gently pull it back up to capture that soupy bottom layer without too much disturbance. It's all about being careful so you don't stir up the water and skew the data. But half the time, you're either wrestling with tangled vegetation beneath the surface or, in this case, something else. I was out in the swamps one morning, and it was so early that the sun was only just starting to peak up. I was out retrieving the kind of mud samples I just described, which are nice and easy to find thanks to the little floaters attached to them, which bob above the water surface. I'm heading from sight to sight on my boat, carefully hauling them up and then moving on to the next. The water was still, the bugs weren't bothering me as much, and the only sounds out there

were the occasional bird call or gator splash, and so everything else felt nice and peaceful. Collecting those grabbers was going well, too, at least until I got to my fourth, which I felt a snag as soon as I tugged on it. It wasn't unusual for a cord to get caught on a root or a cypress knee, and I had a pretty foolproof technique of giving the cord a little slack so I could untangle it, but on this occasion, even after plenty of slack and swaying, the cord still wouldn't budge. I leaned over the side and looked down into the murky water. I'm not sure why. I'd sure as have to. I couldn't see anything. I guess I was just wondering what had gotten it so stuck. I gave the court another couple of wiggles, but as I'm doing it, I was thinking,

it can't be a cypress knee. It couldn't have been any roots either because I was too far out from the banks. But still I wiggle the line, hoping that the sample wouldn't spill, until suddenly it came loose with a kind of popping sensation. I breathed a sigh of relief and then began gently pulling the grabber up to the surface. I polled, and I pulled, expecting to see the box appear at any moment, but something bigger appeared first and floated right to the surface in front of me. And when I realized what it was, I flew back into the boat so hard that I probably have capsized it if it were a canoe.

I thought it might have been a dead deer or hog or something at first, but to my horror, and on closer inspection, I saw that it was no animal. It was a human. It was extremely bloated, rotten to the point of being a bluish-greenish color, and missing its legs below the knee. But even with all that decay, I could tell from its size that the corpse had belonged to a child of approximately six to eight years old. Thanks to the gators, fishes, and turtles that had been eating away at it, the damage and decay were so extensive that I couldn't tell if it was a little boy or a little girl. and the skin looked like it was sliding off in places and in others. What remained of its flesh was so infested with bugs that it literally looked like it was moving.

The face was half caved in, with empty eye sockets looking back at me and dark tufts of mud-slick hair on what little was left of its scalp. It was festering and covered in slime and mud, and the smell. Jesus Christ! It was like it hit me in the face with this wall of its mouth. sour, rot, tinged with swamp gas and death. I tried to stop myself, but it was no good, and I ended up puking my breakfast over the other side of the boat. And then even after I managed to catch my breath and somewhat got myself together, I was still in a really bad way. I should have called it right there,

but I'd never seen a dead body before, let alone one belonged to a child. And so I guess I kind of lost my mind for a minute or two, because all I wanted to do was to get the hell away from that body no matter what. I drove the boat back to the dock, tied her up, and then walked straight to my car and drove home still in shock. And it was only once that I'd taken my second shower to try and get the stink off of me that I realized that it was all in my head, and I burst into tears. And by that, I mean, the smell was all in my head. Like, I thought that I could still smell the rot, but it was just kind of the trauma talking, if that makes sense, or almost an echo of it or something.

Once I pulled myself together, I tiled off and called the cops to let them know what I'd found. I was able to give the exact location, too, because I dropped the grabber's cord and left the floater at the surface again, so it wouldn't be hard for them to find. A deputy I spoke to said to expect a phone call, and then the next day I got one. I ended up driving over to Everglades City

to this missing person's detective, who turned out to be this no-nonsense kind of guy who grilled me on all the details. He asked if I remembered any scraps of clothing, jewelry, or distinctive marks that they could use to ID the kid, but nothing stuck out to me. All I could remember was that rotten, stinking, bluish-green flesh and the god-awful smell that seemed like it was burned into my brain. And me and the detective kept in touch for a little while. I was so torn up about the poor kid that he said that I could call to get updates from him, and I hope that it might solve some kind of long, dead case, and that the poor kid's family could finally get some closure.

But when I finally did get some news, it wasn't good. The level of decomposition was so advanced that there was no recovering any usable DNA. There was also no missing kid reports that matched the area or the timeline, so the kid was eventually buried as a John slash Jane Doe, and the case went cold. I've been devastated. All the nightmares I had, being constantly distracted by the memories of it, I thought that it might all be worth it to put an end to some horrible chapter in a family's life.

But for it all to be for nothing, and for that poor kid to remain nameless, it just tore me up inside. Even though all these years later, I remember that poor kid sometimes when I'm out sampling, wondering what the hell happened. Was there some kind of accident or, It was the poor kid murdered, and what of their family? I bet they'd have given just about anything to know what happened to their child,

even if it was such a terrible ending to such a short life. My name's Pete, and since I'm from Down Under, I thought that I might give you the old traditional greeting there. Good day. Now, I'm retired these days, living out the rest of my days in peace here in my native New South Wales, and while I've done a lot of different things during my working life, I spent the final six years of it driving cabs around the bush. Life out here in rural Australia got its own sort of rhythm to it, though.

It's a lot of farmland, so the days start nice and early, and I'm out picking up people from their farms or little towns scattered across the bush. The roads are mostly dirt tracks or long stretches of highway with nothing but gum trees and kangaroos for company. They're all right in the day, but at night, you've got to watch out for them because they'll jump out into the road and scare the living daylights out of you. Now, it's nice and quiet, though, really quiet in fact, and there are never any jams, only ever the odd tractor holding you up, and those that you can just pass.

But that means we charge much less for much longer journeys, considering a simple run to the shop could be 25Ks each way. Fuel prices are a killer, same with the heat in the summer and the fog in the winter that makes driving legitimately dangerous. But there's a real sense of freedom and community that I wouldn't give up for anything. Everyone knows everyone, so chats in the cab are sometimes like catching up with old friends. Lots of runs or locals headed to town for groceries, doctor appointments, or to visit family. You'll get the occasional farmer who's banned for drink driving as well, so every so often you'll get a stretch of picking up a ned and a cubra and workboats who's off to the sale yards or to pick up some supplies.

And then once his ban is all served up, he says his goodbyes, but you stay mates. And then there are the older people who don't drive anymore, and I'll take them to bingo or the pub for a yarn. Taurus pop up now and then, wanting a lift to the national parks or the wineries, and back to the airport once they're all done and dusted. It's all pretty laid back. You end up hearing some Ripper stories along the way, and you end up getting to know pretty much everyone as you go about your travels. But that means when you pick up someone new, it's almost like a special occasion. You don't go being nosy and all of that and start prying into their personal lives. But there's definitely an element of, well, who's this guy then? And it was no different the time that I got a job picking a fare up from a pub late at night.

And a pub that I was very familiar with and I'd never seen him before. This guy's wearing a black hoodie, dark jeans, and work boots, and he's come staggering out of the pub. And right off, I'm assuming that it's someone that I know who's had a skinful. I'm smiling to myself thinking, who's this clown? But when he gets in the cab, I realize, that, like I said, he's a total stranger. Now, I start dialing it back, right?

Because I'm about to start joking around and saying, What do you thinking, you bloody dickhead? The web's going to have your balls for earrings. You just look at the state of you. But then I can't say that to a total stranger now, can I? So I dial it back, wish him a good evening mate and all of that, and then ask him where he's off to. Now, the guy says he's headed to his mate's house,

and he sounds pretty sauce when he tells me he's not 100% sure where it is. But if I take him to this one particular road about 20 minutes drive away, he'll be able to direct me from there. It turns out he wasn't from around there, which is why he didn't know the area very well. But that wasn't a problem at all, and I promised that I'd get him where he was going, even if it did require a little bit of teamwork. He didn't seem all that talkative, but that was fine by me. Not everyone fancies a chat. But I did have to convince him to take his hood down so I could actually see his face. It was dark out, and he had this hood right up over his head so I couldn't make out his face,

and I joked that he was making me nervous, and he did take his hood down, but he didn't laugh for really anything. Now, he was just deadpan, with his dark hair and eyes, and he also looked like not that much older than a kid, to the point where if I had to guess, I'd have said that he couldn't have been a day older than maybe 22. He was just a kid, so while he was acting a bit weird and moody, I wasn't scared of him. or anything, not at all. Anyway, we got to the road that he wanted me to drive him to. This really long one with houses on either side,

spaced out, mind you, and one that led deep into the bush. Now, we're driving down, and I'm slowing at each house asking him this one, but each time he shakes his head and asks me to drive further down the road. Now, I thought it was pretty funny at first, thinking that this guy had been so smashed when

he'd been to his mates and that he generally couldn't remember where it was. But then after going past maybe five or six different houses over the course of about half a mile, like I said, spaced out, I asked him if he was sure that this was the road that he was after. Now, he just mumbled something about how we needed to keep going. And then after I think three or four more houses, we stopped seeing any and it was just bushland on either side of the road for maybe another half a mile. Now, this was after he told me to keep going and how his mate's house must have been at the end of it. Now, I knew we couldn't find anything because I knew the road,

but the customer's always boss here, as they say, so I drive him all the way down till there was nothing but trees in front of us to show him how that there was nothing there. I told him, well, there you go, mate, nothing there. Should we turn around or we just headed off road? But all he did was mutter something about me switching off the car. I asked him to repeat himself, and he said that he wanted me to switch the engine off so we could talk.

Now, I'm not adverse to a little heart to heart with a passenger. I mean, we're like mobile bartenders like that in a way, listening to people's problems, suggesting solutions or just being the proverbial shoulder to cry on, but this guy was making me nervous. Call it a hunch, or just call it that I'm not keen on stinking drunk strangers, but I was a lot more wary than I'd normally have been if someone asked me to turn off the engine.

But I did as he asked all the same, and then with just a hint of nervousness, I asked him what he wanted to talk about. Now, I turned around in my seat a bit so I could see him and saw a youngish guy with dark hair and dark squinty eyes who seemed very nervous about what he was going to say. I let him take his time and then tried to prompt him based off of his body language by saying, you've been having some dark thoughts, have you, mate? Now, he nodded, and I thought that I had it right on the money, but I didn't. I was slightly but crucially off.

He told me that he'd been thinking about hurting people, not himself, but others, and that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get all those dark thoughts out of his head. He felt angrier and angrier at the world with each passing day, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he hurt someone. And the longer he waited, the worse had got to the point that he couldn't stop thinking about what it'd be like to kill someone.

one. And that was my chance to get a word in because I had a thing or two to say about what it meant to take a life. I told him it was something that he didn't want to know, and while he thought that he did because of how angry he was, he actually didn't know what he was asking for. I told him the dead come back to haunt those who take their lives, that go surreal, just not in the traditional floaty white sheet sort of way. I told him all that from the heart, from experience, but he didn't seemed like he was listening, or rather, he just didn't agree. He told me that he'd heard all that stuff, all the old cliches, how it feels wrong in a way that can't be put into words, and he believed it, too. It just hadn't changed his mind. He still wanted to cut someone up, feel how warm their

blood is coming freshly out of their veins, and he wanted to watch the life drain from someone's eyes, too, knowing that he was the one to do it. I told him he didn't know what he was talking about. that life wasn't a movie and that killing was a chaotic, messy, and terrible thing. And I'll never, ever forget how when I said that last part about chaotic, terrible, and messy, that little bugger smiled. He kept a smile as he told me that that's what appealed to him, that he'd been thinking about it for so long that he couldn't take it anymore. He told me he had to kill someone, and that night was the night he was going to do it.

Now there was this moment of quiet, him smiling and looking at me under his brow, and me just staring back at him thinking, this prick's going to try and bump me off, isn't he? After giving me some little speech that he'd probably written in his mom's basement. Now, I think he saw it in my face, too, that he'd said too much, and I knew what he was planning, so he went for me. He pulled a knife from his hoodie and then lean forward between the two front seats and started slashing and stabbing at me with it. But his swings were wild, and with me leaning forward in my seat to reach under it, he only had an arm and my hip to stab at rather than my head and neck. I still wasn't

safe, though, not yet. But that kid couldn't have a single bloody clue who he was getting into that cab with, not a single clue. Because he only got about three decent jabs into me before I pulled something up from under the seat, stuck it under my arm so the barrel was looking right at him. and then bang, bang, bang, it was all over. Now, this was way back before Port Arthur and all the buyback stuff, so I was able to keep a handgun under my seat for anyone who tried to rob me, or in that case, worse. I'd also done two tours of East Timor in my 20s,

when the fighting was at its worst, too, so when I say I know what killing a man is like from firsthand experience, I'm not kidding. Killing a man in war, it's not a natural thing. People say it is, but it isn't. If it was, it wouldn't follow you around like a bad smell for the rest of your life, and you wouldn't think about the people you killed so often, if they had families, what they did before the war, and what they might have been doing after. A good man doesn't want to kill. He has to, and he spends the rest of his life wondering if he really had to do it, or if things might have been different, if this or that had or hadn't happened. But the lad in the back seat, he wasn't a good man, or he wasn't even really a man, just a kid. But you know what I mean?

He was a bad seed, born with the devil in him, as the old Nana used to say, and there was nothing else I could do but put him down like some dog. Now, I was hurt pretty bad, but I also knew that I needed the crime scene left exactly as is, so I ended up running to the first house that I could find and banging on the door. The people inside thought nothing of helping me out, stopping the bleeding and calling the police, and an ambulance showed up not long after, and I had to drive to the hospital to get stitches while the police took a look at the scene after I'd told them the whole story. It was a pretty open and shut case on their end. The kid still had a knife in his hand, leaning forward and he'd been slashing so wildly

that some of my seat was just completely shredded. Now that wasn't even the only knife that he had on him either. He had another, a smaller one in the pocket of his jeans, and then an even smaller one jammed into the side of one of his boots. It was clear who the aggressor was, no doubt about it. And so there was no arrest, no court, nothing like that, just fair, dinkum, Cobber, and on you go. And now, that silly little bastard is just another one of the ghosts that follow me around, making me wonder why the bloody hell I didn't take that Friday night off. My great grandma Velda grew up in Plaquamines Parish, Louisiana, and let me tell you, she lived one hell of a life. She was born in 1901, a week after the August hurricane, and her mother called her a miracle baby and said the only reason God saw fit for her survival was to give birth to the most beautiful baby that had ever been born, save for Jesus, of course.

And when she was four, she survived the yellow fever epidemic that killed hundreds, if not thousands of people, and once again, her mom. Mama called her a miracle baby because the fever didn't take any of her family. Naturally, Grandma Velma had no memory of all that, but she did remember the Grand Isle in New Orleans hurricanes that hit when she was eight and 14 respectively. And then came World War I and the Spanish flu, which killed almost 3,500 people in New Orleans alone. She survived the floods, the droughts, the depression, and lived through a whole bunch more wars, and she had plenty of good stories to tell.

But perhaps the most memorable she ever told me was one from Prohibition times when moonshiner's and bootlegging rackets were all over the Louisiana coasts. Back then, life was really hard for people in the belly of the bayou. Early mornings meant 5 a.m. in the summertime, 6 a.m. in winter, with Cockerell cries

and yells of Alan's boo from Cajian mothers. Folks were poor too, really poor, so Grandma Veldah used to go out on pea rogues with her older brother, trapping muskrat or hauling in red fish and speckled trout while their daddy was at work. Now, folks mightn't have had much money, but they still wanted to party, so there was a rich tradition to brew up homemade wine or straight-up moonshine so people could have something to drink while they danced and fiddled till dawn. But then, Prohibition hit, and when the Moonshiners moved their operations out into the bayou,

the Bureau of Prohibition followed them, and then what followed was a bloody game of cat and mouse. The chief of police tried to keep his boys out of what was turning into a bloody battle of attrition between the Bureau and the bootleggers, but that could only last so long. One night, one of the parish police officers came stumbling through the door, having been shot through the gut by a bootlegger he'd been unlucky enough to stop. The officer hadn't even been looking for bootleg liquor. He just wanted to make sure that the driver wasn't drunk since he was driving so late. But since the bootleggers were in their total war mentality after fighting the bureau so intensely,

the man just reached for his pistol, shot the officer through the stomach, and then drove off. The man's fellow officers tried rushing him to the hospital up in New Orleans, and word has it, he's alive and talking when they got him there. But sadly, he lost way too much blood during surgery, and he passed away on the operating table. The chief and his boys were furious. They didn't agree with prohibition, not just because they respected the tradition of home brewing, but because they enjoyed a drinker to themselves. And this meant at first it was their unofficial policy not to enforce it. But after one of their officers were killed, that all changed. The chief of police, a man named Henry Herbert,

knew that the key to beating the bootleggers was winning the parish's trust. Not that the people didn't trust him to enforce the law. They just didn't trust that he could keep them safe from men who rode by night to seek retribution against those that had wronged them. See, the bootleggers own the night, and they ruled by fear and mistrust. Everyone knew that anyone working with the bureau would end up having some kind of accident, or in more serious cases, have their brains blown out while they slept to send a message. But no one knew exactly who was in the bootleggers' pay and who wasn't. See, it wasn't just a hardcore group of old Cajians hiding out in the bayou. They had friends and relatives looking out for them, as well as paid lookouts who only wanted to make a few bucks.

And that meant that there were never any tips, never any sightings or witnesses, and why the bootleggers were always one step ahead of the law somehow. But this led Chief Herbert to do something pretty radical. He approached the New Orleans Temperance League, a very well-funded group which promoted sobriety and asked them to spot. sponsor a reward system for anyone who helped bring the bootleggers to justice. Unsurprisingly, the league was only too happy to help, meaning Chief Herbert was able to ride up and down Placquamins parish, announcing rewards for anyone who approached his officers with information. And at first they got nothing but a handful of bogus reports intended to throw them off. But then one of the parish officers approached the chief, talking about a girl down in Potash,

who wanted to talk to him about the bootleggers. He said it was real important, and what she had to say involved one of the lead bootleggers having an after-hour sit-down meeting with a wealthy New Orleans financier in the saloon she worked at. There was just one condition. She would only talk if they gave her a ride up to Belle Shas in the middle of the night after guaranteeing the safety of both her and her family. Chief Herbert gave the officer the go-ahead to drive down to Potash in the middle of the night and deliver the girl to safety. But the very same night, when the officer arrived at the girl's home, they found her mama in a state,

talking about how she hadn't come home that evening. She wasn't missing for long, the poor thing. She showed up the next morning when a fisherman up near the town of Empire spotted her body floating in the Mississippi. And the whole parish was as horrified as it was furious, but they didn't need to ask Chief Herbert to do anything about it, because he already had a plan. He was going to head out into the bayou with a handful of his officers, find the first bootleg lickers still they could, and then blow it up to smithereens with some dynamite that they brought along with them. And if they were any bootleggers unlucky enough to be around at the time, they were going to face Chief Herbert's wrath.

The chief waited a couple of nights, long enough for the bootleggers to start feeling safe again. And then he gathered up half a dozen of his officers armed with rifles and shotguns as well as their side-on. arms, and then led them out into the swamps under the cover of darkness. The chief knew the area well, and the men he'd picked to join him were all accomplished outdoorsmen. They crept through the bayou on cats' paw, slowly getting deeper and deeper until they couldn't see lights from the parish townships anymore. They stayed quiet as mice, avoiding patches of mud and water while never once daring to shine a light or talk louder than a whisper.

And then after maybe an hour or two more, they spent. smelled wood smoke and realized that they were close. Chief Herbert and his boys kept on moving till they found a moonshiner's shack, and then they slowly closed in till they had it surrounded. Then on the chief signal, they rushed the shine shack with their weapons at the ready, only to find it empty. There was a fire burning under the still, and even a whole bunch of mash in there slowly brewing up, but there were no moonshiners.

at least none that the chief and his boys could see, because the next thing they knew, they themselves were surrounded and caught in a bootleggar ambush. One of the officers went down right away when a bullet almost took his arm off. Then another took a bullet when he tried to return fire and win the officers a little slack. If they didn't fight their way out of there, if they didn't do something, they were all going to die and Chief Herbert knew it. He grabbed one of his wounded men's sidearms, then carrying a pit,

pistol in each hand, he ordered his men to all open fire at once to give him enough free air to slip away. And the plan worked like a charm, and the chief was able to slip out of the ambush site without any of the bootleggers realizing he'd moved. The chief could have just as easily escaped and left his men to die, but he never was the type of man to hide a yellow streak on his belly. And when the chief circled around on foot, moving as fast as he could, the bootleggers did not expect anyone to be behind them. They were too busy and far too excited in shooting at the shine shack and trying to kill police officers. Some of them were executed point-blank without even turning around to see who was killing them. The chief killed one bunch and then ran on to the

next, taking each group from the rear so they didn't even know what was hitting them. And then slowly but surely as the ambushers were put down to the rest realized the game was up and they fled into the darkness of the bayou. Once reunited with his boys, Chief Herbert ordered one to escort both wounded men back to the parish. And then after that, he and his three remaining officers ran roughshod through the bayou, blowing up shine shacks and shooting down bootleggers

like they were a bunch of wild Indian braves. They'd stayed out there for a whole other night too, running on pure adrenaline in their love of justice. And then, when all was said and done, the chief could boast that 11 shines. shacks had been blown to bits. Upon his return to Belle Chase, the chief told his wife to take their young daughter and go find some place to hide out in New Orleans.

The bootleggers, or at least what was left to them, would no doubt seek the revenge against the chief and his men, and he didn't want his kinsfolk around town when they did. He put them in a car and covered them with blankets, too, so folks couldn't see what or who was being transported. And then after that, he went and got himself a few hours of sleep before he and his boys went back out in the bayou to do it all over again. And the story has it that the chief and his officers went back out near the side of the ambush, when they spotted two bodies floating in the water nearby.

One of the officers figured that it might be two of the bootleggers that they put down two nights ago, but they didn't have any flashlights on them to confirm it, so they got up way too close instead. That's when one of the officers says in a voice that sounded thick with horror. Oh my God, don't look, Chief. Don't look. But it was too late. The chief had already recognized the bodies of the woman and child floating in the water, for they belonged to his wife and his daughter. Folks say that the chief went mad with grief right then and there. His wife and kid had been dead and floating for hours out there, so there was no bringing them back. But that sure didn't stop the chief from trying. He pulled them out of the bayou and then tried clearing their lungs and breathing air. to him. But when he started pushing on their chest to clear out the water, it wasn't water that

came out of their mouths. What came out had this kind of chemical tinge to it, and a way half-stagnant bayou water could never be. Because the chief's wife and daughter hadn't drowned. They were already dead when they were tossed into the water. What came out of their mouths that night was moonshine. Someone had murdered them and then filled their lungs with bootleg liquor. Once he was sure they were dead and there was no bringing them back, Chief Herbert supposedly went very quiet. His boys kept asking him what they should do, but he didn't say a word in response.

The chief wasn't even fighting back tears. He was just quiet, like the loss had completely broken him. And then with his wife over one shoulder and his daughter over the other, he walked off into the bayou, never to be seen again. No one ever saw him out there, but folks knew. that the chief was out in the bayou still hunting down bootleggers. You'd see the smoke trails in the morning rising up from the thicker parts of the swamp, and you'd know that he'd been busy.

They'd find the bodies, too, bodies of bootleggers that have been tortured to death. They'd be missing their scalps, their noses, and sometimes their whole jaws had been ripped out. But that last part had a practical purpose. Because breaking their jaws or chopping and ripping them out entirely, made it much easier for Chief Herbert to fill the lungs of the dead. dying with the same moonshine they filled the lungs of his wife and daughter with. The killing and burning continued for a few weeks, and all the while, people would be heading out into the bayou trying to find him and bring him home. But old Chief Herbert was never found,

and the only thing folks would find was the evidence of his blood-soaked work. My great-grandma Veldon knew that story like the back of her hand because she'd heard it told and re-told dozens of times by the man that she'd later marry. His name was Jacob, and he was one of the men shot during the ambush Chief Herbert saved them from, and he went on to become my great-grandfather. Sadly, I never got to meet him, and I only met my great-grandma Veldah when I was just a baby, so I don't have any solid memories of any times we spent together. But just knowing their story and the story of Chief Herbert's righteous revenge

is enough for me to feel connected to them, and it's through knowing our kin and our history that we get to know ourselves better. Driving for Uber in London was probably the lowest point of my entire life. It sounds harsh, and I'm not saying that there weren't upsides to it, or that I didn't meet some unforgettable people while driving them around. It's more that I was forced into it after my first business went under, so I was in a really bad place mentally. And it was while driving Uber that I went through what might have been the scariest experience of my entire life.

London is a mad city. Probably always has been that way, and probably always always. always will. I like being able to pick my own hours and log on to Uber whenever I fancied making a bit of cash. I could choose to only work peak hours, too, because surging fares meant that I can make double or even triple what I might make during quieter periods. You meet all kinds of people, too. Tourists, interesting locals, even celebrities sometimes. And if you're out chasing airport runs, you can make a tidy amount of money on chilled out runs while chatting about people's holidays, visits to family, whatever it is they're traveling for. You're your own governor, really. Just you,

your motor, and the app. But it's not all sunshine and roses. London traffic can be an absolute nightmare. Half the time you're stuck in gridlock, burning through your petrol and your patience, especially when you less charges nick a chunk of your earnings. Insurance rates are liable to go through the roof and you got to shell out for pHV license and checks, and if your car's playing up, than even more money down the drain. Competition is horrifically fierce, too, and there's very little honor among drivers in that respect. And so sometimes you have to be extra quick on the draw

to get a decent fare, or you could be waiting there for almost an hour trying to get on the scoreboard. And I'd say the very worst part of the job is the passengers. The bad ones, I mean. I'm not talking about the ones who complain or chat non-stop when I'm trying to concentrate on the road. I'm more talking about, in fact,

Well, let me just tell you the story and you'll see what I mean. So about a month before I threw in the towel and signed up to Universal Credit for a bit, I got this job taking some lads from Brixton down toward the Kingston Estates. They were quite a rowdy little trio who kept me waiting a few minutes before they piled into the back of my car. They couldn't have been older than maybe 25, but you can't tell with some of them. I've known a 17-year-old lad to look and talk like a bleeding 30-year-old, but that's neither here nor there, I suppose. Now anyways, these younger lads pile into the back making jokes and being loud,

but they weren't being threatening or intimidating or anything like that, just young and annoying. I confirmed where they were going, told them to fasten their seatbelts, always a good idea with young lads, otherwise they just don't, and then off we went towards the estates. The other thing that really annoyed me about that job was how they somehow picked rush hour of all times to request their Uber. You obviously get big fares from driving people around at those times, but it's so not worth it compared to late nights or even early mornings when everyone's rushing but tired.

But sometimes when you're out, you're out. So it was better to take the job and be stuck in traffic making money rather than losing money. And so as expected, we had a traffic jam pretty quickly and slowed to a stop surrounded by cars. The lads in the back are complaining, trying to backseat drive and all of that, and I wasn't a bad. LN to them or anything, but I said that they weren't getting charged in the extra, and they should just relax instead of giving it all that. Now, they were chill, saying, all right, mate, fair enough, we're good. And then we sat there for a few minutes, moving forward by a few cars every so often while we waited for our turn at the lights. The lads in the back were chatting away to themselves,

and it sounded like they were looking out the window and pointing out at a passerby. Now, they said, is that so-and-so? And then another said, yeah, it is. And then the first lad then said, I seen us. He's coming over. This is when I turned round to see who was approaching the car, because the lad in the back sounded pretty nervous, like whoever it was didn't want to give him a very cheery hello. But when I turned in my seat and looked out the back window over my left shoulder,

I just thought, ah, bollocks. Because approaching my car was a lad on a bike, wearing a black ski mask, and what looked like he was holding a freaking sun. sword. Now, I say sword, but it was more like a designer machete if that makes sense. At least a foot and a half long with a jet black blade, and it looked quite expensive, actually, like a good bit of kits if you were off on a jungle trekking holiday. But this wasn't the Amazon. This was London, so as soon as I saw it, I knew something bad was about to happen. Now, the first thing I did

was lock my doors and then the lads in the back started shouting drive, drive, drive, but there was nowhere I could go. I kept telling them that I'd lock the doors and that the guy couldn't get him, but as he got closer and closer to the car, I realized a window wasn't going to stop him. The guy got off his bike and gridlock traffic and started bashing my back window with the handle of the machete. I realized very quickly that they'd be trapped once that glass fell through and that the guy on the opposite side needed to get out of the car and make rooms so the others could get out. I unlocked the door because there was a child lock in the back and then started shouting at the guy in the back to get out and run. I shouted at him again and again to get out of the

car, but it was like he was frozen. His eyes were glued to the window as the machete hammered on it until it suddenly smashed. The glass burst and flew into the car. It was only then the guy in the back realized that he actually had to get out so his mates could actually escape too. But by then, It was a bit too late for the lad nearest to the machete. I don't know how many times he got stabbed before I finally just put my foot down and reversed into the car behind me. We hit bumper to bumper, and I thought that the lad in the back might make a run for it just like his mate's head by then.

But all he could do was clutch at all of his stab wounds trying to stop the bleeding. That and shout, please drive, please drive, please drive over and over at me. Now, everyone could see what was happening, and the cars on my right pretty much safe. this lad's life by hanging back and giving me enough space to get out. And I suppose they didn't want their cars smashed because it was the only route that I had available, so if they clogged it up, they were going to need some work done. But they left it free all the same, and I was able to peel out of the gap at speed before taking it to a grass verge and overtaking all the waiting traffic. Now we're finally away from the guy with a ski mask and the machete, but it was still the matter

of getting the lad in the back to the hospital. And even that wasn't the first thing of my He was back there shouting, Please, brough, please take me to hospital. I don't want to die. Please don't let me die. And this other stuff that was sending my blood pressure through the bleeding roof. And I think God that I knew the road so well by then too,

because if they'd have been at the beginning of my stint driving Uber, I think I might have not actually known where to take him. But luckily, I was able to zoom him over to the nearest A&E where he was rushed inside and obviously made a priority patient because of all the stab wounds. I ended up staying in A&E for about an hour, waiting to hear back from a doctor that the lad was at least okay. Now, obviously, had to stay there to talk to the police as well, because that's where they were coming to talk to the guy who'd been stabbed. But I really couldn't tell them all that much aside from where it had happened and what time.

They thanked me and then waited around for a bit chatting until the doctor came out with the good news. The lad was going to be okay, and he was awake and able to talk and all of that, and so the police were free to go and talk to him. him. I was able to go through too just to be able to wish him all the best. I didn't stay long. I couldn't, but the level of gratitude he showed me from the hospital bed was something I'll never forget. I wasn't the one who saved his life. I was one of many people who contributed to saving it, but the way he thanked me for saving my life, it makes me quite emotional to think about it today. He kept thanking me, even as I walked off with a lump in my throat and I had to properly pull myself together when I went back outside. I couldn't take my cab because the police wanted it for

forensics, so I had to call a cab of my own for once to get home and tell my girlfriend everything that had happened. I got my car back in a couple of days, which was nice, and I was never so glad to have paid for that big insurance policy prior to working for Uber, because it meant I got hazardous materials covered by the plan and didn't have to pay a thing to have it cleaned. I wasn't even going to take out such an expensive plan at first because it really is like insane rates at the minute to get private higher cabs covered in London. But the two pieces of advice I got from another driver were one, when in doubt, cancel the fare. And two, upgrade your insurance because people are nasty and leave all sorts of mess in your car. I thought I could avoid it by picking my fares carefully

and I still took his advice and upgraded my plan. And oh my God was I glad I did because it saved me so much of a headache I can't even imagine. I didn't last much longer after that. I wasn't traumatized or anything. I just knew that I should pack it all in before my luck really ran out, if you know what I mean. And I started a second business earlier than planned and then worked 70-hour weeks for just shy of two months until it started to break even. And after that, it was onwards and upwards in a weird way, and it was like something good

came out of something bad because being so determined to stay off the roads and make something of myself was what I needed to make a success of myself. Hey, let's read, big fan. I think I got a fishing story of mine that you might enjoy, and I know fishing ain't exactly the scariest of subjects outright, but I promise you, this one's got some bite to it. Many years ago, my friend, this old pal Earl, went out fishing in the great dismal swamp out here in North Kakalaki. Now, for those that don't know, the great dismal is basically a huge stretch of murky water

along with these cypress trees, Spanish moss, and humidity that's so thick, it feels like the air is weighing on you. It's a really beautiful place when the weather's fine, but it's wild, too, and while that definitely helps give it an almost creepy sort of vibe, it sure is a fine place to catch some fish, I'll tell you. Now it was September, and one of those overcast, drizzly days that's perfect for fishing, and so we figured that we'd head out with our John boat, our rods, and a cooler full of bait to see what we could bring home. Now, I had some night crawlers and some stink bait that I whipped up myself. Then, of course, we brought along a six-pack or two of them cheap beers to make the hour slip past a little quicker. And to us, it was nothing better than sitting out there, lines in the water,

waiting for a bite while we talked out all of our problems and just watched the world go by. And so we went out whenever we could, especially when the weather was right for it, and that day was no different. We pushed off from the bank around 9.30, motor chugging away as quiet as we could to make it so that we didn't spook away all the fish. And someday, when the weather's nice, the great dismal can be a real pretty place. But on days like that one, where there was nothing but light rain and gray clouds overhead, you can be a very nice. Bet your ass it earned its name. It gets so dismal that it for real gets a little creepy at times, especially when it's all quiet and there's nothing but the sound of bay you bugs buzzing

near your ear while they try to drink your blood. We both used a ton of bug spray and then mostly did the trick and keeping them off you. It's creepy as hell knowing that there are little vampires flying around, but having so many around means you're in prime catfish territory. Because when the rains come down and the bugs start hitting the water, it's feeding time. And since we'd grown up together, Earl and I had been fishing together since we were small, and so we knew all the spots. We anchored up in this little cove where the water was still deep, and then started casting out our lines.

We got a couple of small ones right off the bat, nothing to write home about, but enough to get us hungry for bigger and better fish. Things were going just fine, until Earl was telling me about the time he hooked a bass as big as a hog over at Fontana Lake. and in the middle of the story, he made this big gesture to show me how he did something, and he knocked his beer off the edge of the boat and into the water. It hit the water and started sinking fast with the bubbles trailing up like they were mocking him. But then Earl, being the stubborn son of a gun that he is,

wasn't about to let a perfectly good cold one go to waste. He whipped off his boots and socks, took his shorts off, and then hopped into the water. I think he figured the water would be no higher than his waist because in most places the swamp's nice and shallow, but we must have drifted off into a deeper spot because when he dropped, the water went all the way up to his chest. I'm laughing at first, saying that I hope that beer was worth getting soaked,

and then as he's waiting over to where the beer was, something knocked him off balance, and he let out a scream. The water near him starts churning up like a washing machine on spin cycle, and Earl's arms were flailing all wild before he yelled out, something's got me. My heart jumped into my throat because I'm thinking it was a gator maybe or one of them big water snakes that lurks in the roots. I grabbed an ore, ready to whack at whatever it was and leaned over the side ready to swing,

but as I did, Earl came leaping towards me through the water with one of his hands reaching out towards me. I grabbed his hand and hauled him up onto the boat and then he just kind of laid there gasping with his face red as a beat. He used drenched from head to toe, breathing heavy and letting loose a string of cuss words than to make a sailor blush, and I asked him what the hell had gotten him. And he just shook his head like he didn't have a clue. Then we cranked the motor and peeled out of there faster than scalded dogs.

Now once we were back on solid ground, safe and sound with a boat tied up, Earl rolled up his pant leg to check the damage. There was this big, ugly red scrape running across his calf, raw as hell, but not bleeding, too much. Those weren't no regular teeth marks either, not the ones that you might expect. They were rough, like somebody took a sheet of sandpaper and rubbed it hard across his skin a bunch of times. I know those kind of marks anywhere, because they come from a catfish bite, and there ain't no mistaking it. But here's the kicker. The span of that bite went from knee to ankle on the back of his leg, meaning the catfish had to be pushing at least 12 feet long to make a mark that big. But that doesn't make a single lick of sense because there's no flathead or channel cat in those swamps that can get anywhere near that size.

The record around here is maybe five or six feet on a good day. But that thing, it had to be a goddamn monster. And since swamp waters are full of all kinds of nasty bugs and bacteria, neither of us were about to take any chances with a wound like that. And so after getting Earl into the truck, we hauled ass over to a hospital. It was a real bumpy ride at first because we had to get off the back roads and the whole time Earl was complaining about how his leg was throbbing like a bad tooth. And we got to the ER, checked in, and then the doc took a look at Earl's leg. He obviously didn't need any stitches, but it turned out his tetanus shots were way overdue. They jab him with a fresh one and then while we're sitting at the sterile waiting room, Earl can't keep his mouth shut.

He starts regaling the nurses and anybody who will listen with the whole story. Now, the beer dropped, the underwater tussle, and how we thought that it was a giant catfish that nearly made him as supper. Now, people started chuckling at first, thinking it's just another fish story. But then he started telling it back home, too, and in a small town like ours, word gets around fast. And when it did, it was like we lit the fuse on some powder keg. And by that weekend, half the county was abuzz with talk of some legendary catfish hiding out in the dismal. Fishermen from all over start flocking to the spot we described and not just amateurs either. We spotted guys with fancy sonar and heavy-duty tackle.

It retired guys who had put all their time into fishing, and each and every one of them was clearly hoping it would be them to reel the beast in. It turned into a full-blown fishing frenzy with coolers and beers and campfires on the banks. Local bait shops ended up selling out big hooks and line, and local bait shops ended up selling out of big hooks. in line, and even local news picked up on it, saying it was the dismal monster hunt. Now, Earl and I stayed clear laughing about the chaos we started. But as the days dragged on and nobody hooked the thing, folks started turning skeptical. Whispers turned to accusations

with folks saying that we'd done nothing but tell a tall tale. And that hurt a bit, I can't lie, because we knew what we saw. Earl's bite mark healed up just fine, but that old catfish, he'd probably still down there in the depths growing bigger by the year. Those things can live 80 years easy, some say even longer, and so one day, mark my words, somebody's going to cross past with it again. But until then, Earl and I will just keep our story between friends, knowing the truth is out there, lurking quietly, and the great dismal. As a younger man, I used to drive taxis around my home city of Belfast,

but driving taxis in Belfast during the 80s was a lot different to driving taxis anywhere else, because this was at the height of the troubles during the 80s, meaning Belfast was a very, very violent place to live and work. You'd hear about bombings and shootings on the radio, sometimes on a daily basis, and it got horribly normal to be driving along, minding your own business, and suddenly come across a British Army patrol and their Saracens, all armed to the teeth and looking angry. It was a scary time, but you had no choice but to carry on bringing home the bacon because we all had people depending on us. Some came close to some pretty nasty ends while out on the roads. Fellow cab drivers, I mean, though, but some came closer than others, myself included. On a very drizzly Tuesday in 1981, I was out on the roads picking up fairs.

I've been on the road since tea time, having done a few runs into the city center and back. And then around 10 o'clock, I was cruising along the Falls Road edge on my way to Anderson Town to pick up a fair. Now, the drive took a little bit shorter than usual, as I was mostly driving down empty back streets, and since I was starting to feel a bit tired, I remember telling myself that that was the last job for the night. And remembering that gives me a dark sort of chuckle these days. I got to the pickup spot, which was the car park of the old swimming pool before it all got done. But when I pulled in, there was no one to be seen anywhere. Now, I'm thinking the fellas inside the building that he's a member of staff who needs to be.

to set the alarm and lock up, so, and so to save petrol, I turned off my engine while I waited for him. One minute goes by, then two, then three, and still no one appears from the pool building. I started getting a little bit impatient, thinking that I'll just give him a few more minutes, good grace, and then Amovsky. I remember tapping my wheel, looking out my driver's window at a car that got my attention, and that's when the shooting started. The window screen shattered. glass was flying everywhere and then one by one I started feeling the hits. First in the shoulder, like a hammer smashing bone, and then the chest, knocking the wind out of me. I got another in the leg and that one was the worst and it felt like someone had shoved a red hot poker right to the bone.

And the car was getting riddled. The panels were buckling, the tires were popping and all the while I'm trying to make myself as small as possible, practically ducked down into the footwell trying to climb inside the engine. And it was only when it stopped that I started thinking, why me? What did I do? I was just driving a taxi trying to make an honest wage. Who the hell did they think I was? And the pain was everywhere.

And somehow I was still conscious and gasping for air, because the shooting had stopped and I was still alive, and I thought that maybe I'd gotten off easy. I knew I still had a mountain to climb in terms of getting myself help because I could feel everywhere that I'd been shot, and I knew that I had to get to a hospital. But there was also this mad feeling of relief knowing that I was over the worst of it

and it was all technically uphill from there. Unfortunately for me, that wasn't exactly true and as I tried scrambling back into the driver's seat, I heard the footsteps on the concrete outside. I looked up just in time to see a man in a balaclava pointing a pistol through the window and it wasn't quite like my life flashed in front of my eyes, but I did quite clearly see him.

an image in my mind of my wife and kid at home, crying when they got the news. The gunman leans in a bit more, so he's pointing this gun right at my head with the barrel inches from me. I remember his eyes, how they were a lighter shade of either blue or green, and I remember how much hatred was in them. I've never seen anyone so angry at me in all of my life, not before and not since. And this monster didn't even know me. At least I'm a 90% and sure he didn't, and to him, I was just another Protestant. He had no hesitation whatsoever in pulling that trigger, but when he did, nothing. The gun had jammed.

Now it was a miracle or a complete coincidence, depending on how you look at it, but again, it wasn't over. The guy starts fumbling with the gun, trying to make it shoot. I saw a bullet pop out when he did something like slap it or pull at it, and then he tried again, and he his gun toward my head and pulling the trigger. But again, the gun didn't fire. I was laying there, sort of leaning against the seat, watching it all like it was in slow motion, as he tried once again to make his gun work.

Blood's pulling up under me, my vision is blurring, and I remember listening to him muttering to himself, just properly desperate to get it working so he can blow my brains out up close. He didn't get a chance, though, because one of his mates suddenly appears and grabs his arm, and then he shouted, leave it, and both of them ran off.

They knew the RUC would be on the way, the police, I mean, and while it must have been only a minute or so before I heard their sirens, I'm sure you understand when I say that it felt like an eternity. The last thing I remember was blue flashing lights and then just this big blank space between that and waking up in a hospital bed with machines beeping and nurses fussing over me. The doctor said I was very lucky, that the bullets only missed all my vital bits by a matter of millimeters in some places,

but I'd lost a lot of blood, and my shoulder was shattered and needed pins, and my leg was fractured. But the worst part was the chest wound. It had collapsed lungs, so I needed the tube put in to drain all the fluid. And seeing all that and feeling it too was probably the worst experience of my whole life, worse than the shooting, because that was over in a matter of seconds. Whereas that tube was in there for over a week, and I still feel weird phantom pants. pains looking at the scar where it went in. I was in the hospital for weeks having all sorts of operations and then doing all the physiotherapy that came afterwards. I had the wife and the little one in there crying over me, which was really tough, and my little boy didn't

understand what was happening at all, so it was even worse on him, just not getting any of it. The peelers came around too. That's the police, if you're wondering, asking me all kinds of questions that I didn't know the answers to. I didn't see any faces. I couldn't identify. I couldn't ID anyone and I could barely even remember driving out to the old pool. The whole thing was just some blur. My time in hospital was basically one big blur too, as I had morphine for the pain, anti-anxiety too, because I kept having these nightmares at first whenever I'd nod off. Visitors bought grapes and cards from the church and then my cousin, who was a very religious person, rest her soul, brought a minister in one day to pray over me. And he said that the gun jamming

was divine intervention, but I'm really not so sure. I think it was just dumb luck. Recovery took months, but eventually I came home on crutches and with my arm in a sling. The neighbors turned out like a guard of honor to welcome me home, all queued up to shake my good hand and tell me that they were glad to see me home. They brought me food over so my missus didn't have to cook, and she spent all that extra time on her hands, either crying or telling me that she was going to divorce me if I didn't stop driving the taxis. She wasn't serious, I don't think, or maybe she was, who knows, but I did as she asked me all the same. I found work packing boxes in a warehouse, which was very boring, but much safer,

but there were still signs of what you might call PTSD today, but back then it was just stress. I'd jump at cars backfiring or door slamming too loud, and then forget about cabbying or driving anywhere at all, for that matter. I didn't get behind the wheel for a while. while, even when I was well enough to do it. And as you can imagine, it reminded me too much of that night. Even just holding the steering wheel in the same way I did, when I was waiting, caused cold sweat to collect around my neck and armpits. And then my heart would start hammering like I was about to have a heart attack, and I'd end up crawling out of the driver's seat, hyperventilating until the wife came out to bring me inside again. My mind was locked onto the shooting for months,

and any spare moment I had, my mind would wander to it. I'd think about the rat bag who lured me to that car park and wondered if he was forced to do it, or he did it willingly because he was so full of hate and anger, like the same sort of wild hatred I saw in the eyes of the man who tried shooting me in the head. As far as I know, he was never caught, but even if he was, he'd probably be a free man today after the Good Friday Agreement let all kinds of thugs and killers back onto the streets. I was told that writing this out would be healthy for me, and in a way I suppose it had been. But sometimes thinking about the coincidences is enough to drive me insane.

A good example would be how many things had to happen for that bastard's gun to jam twice on him. He had to buy it or get it from a guy that hardly cleaned it, and then the ammunition that he used had probably been kept in a damp place or something to try and hide it from the peelers. And so much had to happen or not happen for my brains to stay in my skull that night. And although I'm not a strictly religious man, It is hard not to wonder if there was some sort of higher power at work that night. Hey, friends, thanks for listening.

Don't forget to hit that follow button to be alerted of our weekly episodes every Tuesday at 1 p.m. EST. And if you haven't already, check out Let's Read on YouTube, where you can catch all my new video releases every Monday and Thursday at 9 p.m. EST. Thanks so much, friends, and I'll see you in the next episode.