The Why Files: Operation Podcast - 625: Unexplained Phenomena: The Dead Village, Rain Phenomena, YouTube Mystery

Episode Date: January 23, 2026

Gather round for three campfire stories that cannot be explained.A corrections officer watches water materialize inside a concrete prison cell with no source. A YouTube channel uploads 72,000 videos in nine months at an impossible rate, then vanishes after pointing to coordinates in the Atlantic Ocean.Three Royal Navy cadets walk into an English village and find themselves surrounded by rotting oxen, frozen smoke, and watchers behind dark windows. These aren't urban legends or campfire tales passed down through generations.These are documented events with multiple witnesses—police officers, prison officials, military personnel, and investigators who went on record about what they saw. Water that falls upward. Channels that shouldn't exist. Villages trapped in time.Each story breaks something fundamental about how we understand reality. The witnesses had everything to lose and nothing to gain.Yet they couldn't deny what happened.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HwC9L4BDpE

Gather around, because this happened. Suffolk, England, October 1957. Three Royal Navy cadets walked across Green Hills on a training exercise, map reading and orientation. William Lang, Michael Crowley, and Ray Baker, a beautiful Sunday morning. Bird sang, church bells rang in the distance. Below them was the quaint, small village of Cursey. They walked down the slope toward the town,

expecting to find a pub or a telephone. Instead, everything just stopped. The bells went silent, the birds vanished, and the only sound left was their footsteps on the grass. But there was something new, the smell of death. William Lang was from Scotland, a stranger to this part of East England. Michael Crowley and Ray Baker were local. All of them sharp, observant, fearless. But nothing in their training prepared them for cursie.

The silence hit them first. One moment wind blew through the trees and birds sang in the distance. The next moment, nothing. The air went dead. Not quiet, dead. William later described it as an overwhelming feeling of sadness and depression. Something pressed down on them, a weight they could physically feel. The hills behind them showed orange leaves, red maples, and the browns of autumn. That made sense. It was October. But here in the village, everything looked summer green. They walked from October into summer in ten steps. The village looked empty. No cars on the streets. No people walking. between houses, no dogs barking, no children playing, no sounds of Sunday life. But smoke rose from the chimneys, straight gray columns that climbed into the sky without moving. No wind blew them, like they were frozen in time. The cadets felt an irrational animal terror that made them want to run back up the hill, but they pushed forward. The houses looked wrong, timber-framed structures

that appeared medieval, but not ruined, not restored, but actively lived in. Yet they lacked every modern feature, no power lines, no television antennas, no telephone poles. Some windows had glass, but most were just open shutters. Their footsteps echoed on the cobblestones. Every sound they made felt too loud, like they broke some unspoken rule just by being there. They did not feel welcome. The church was supposed to be full of people. The streets were supposed to be busy with families walking home from services. Instead, Cursey was a ghost town. They passed a house with its door open, lying looked inside. Dust floated in the light, but didn't settle.

It just hung there. The interior looked lived in, but nobody was there. Near the stream at the village center, ducks stood motionless in the water, not swimming, not moving, just sitting there silent. The cadets looked up at the trees. The branches didn't move. And something even more unsettling, the trees cast no shadows. They reached a shop window.

No glass, just an open hole in the wall. They approached the window hoping to find someone who could explain what happened. It was a butcher shop. No counters, no cash register, no refrigeration. Just thick wooden planks, dark with old bloodstains and iron hooks hanging from the ceiling. And hanging from the hooks were three oxen carcasses, with flesh rotting off the bone. Studio days can stretch long, whether I'm writing, editing,

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The meat turned completely green with decay, and sticky green fluid dropped from their bodies onto the dusty floor. Then the smell hit them. Old blood and rot, the sweet and metallic stench of meat that sat dead for days in warm weather, decomposing in the open air. On a thick wooden table was a curved butcher's blade, the kind used before industrial slaughterhouses. before stainless steel. It was October in Suffolk, mild weather, perfect condition for flies. In the real world, rotting meat in October warmth

attracts swarms of flies. The cadets should have heard them buzzing from 20 feet away, but there were no flies, no maggots, no insects crawling over green flesh, nothing moved, because nothing lived here. They looked up, searching for the church tower where the bells rang when they approached, but the tower was gone.

The church ended where the nave stopped, half finished. Construction halted in the middle of the build. Then the backs of their necks prickled. They spun around. The windows of the houses were dark, but someone was there. Multiple someone's. Hiding in the shadows behind dark windows, someone was watching the three strangers who wandered into their village.

And whoever they were, they wanted them to leave. The oppression grew heavier. They pressed down on their shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Michael Crowley started to shiver. His hand shook. His breathing was fast and shallow. Pure terror.

The kind that bypasses thought and screams at your brain to run. We need to leave, he said. His voice sounded flat and dead. Like sound couldn't travel through the air. But the cadets agreed. And they didn't walk out of cursie. They ran.

They scrambled up the far hillside, boots slipping on wet grass, lungs burning. Lange later described running for a few hundred yards before they could even stop. When they finally collapsed on the ridge, gasping for air, they looked back at Cursey. It looked normal. A car drove down the main street. Smoke dispersed naturally in the wind.

The church bell rang out, clear and normal. The church tower wasn't mid-construction. It stood tall against the sky. The village was alive again, or alive for the first time since they'd entered it. The green oxen were gone. The quiet was gone. It was like it never happened. But Lang knew what he saw, and he knew Cursy saw him back.

The three men didn't speak about their experience for years. They knew how it sounded, and they had careers to protect. In the late 1980s, William Lang went back. Not physically, not yet. He was older now living in Australia, and the questions never stopped. He talked by phone with Michael Crowley. They went over what happened. Crowley didn't remember in as much detail,

but he remembered the quiet, the lack of wires, no shit. streetlights, and he remembered the bizarre butcher shop. Something strange happened that day. They both knew it. Lang wrote to Andrew McKenzie. Mackenzie was a psychical researcher who spent decades looking at cases like this. Time slips. Someone seen the past with their own eyes. McKenzie read Lang's letter. This wasn't just another ghost story. This was something extraordinary. They corresponded for years. McKenzie cross-referenced every detail against historical records. Lang described everything he could remember. The smell, the quality. quiet, the watchers in the windows, the green oxen hanging in a shop that shouldn't have existed.

In 1990, McKenzie flew Lang to England, and they walked through Kersey together. The village looked normal. Tourists wandered between the old buildings, cars were parked along the road, the quiet was gone, replaced by ordinary sounds of the living community. Lang found the building that was once the butcher shop. It wasn't a shop anymore. It was a private residence. He knocked on the door. An elderly woman answered, Lang asked about the history of the house, whether it was ever a butcher shop, whether she knew anything about its past. The woman told him it was a private house for as long as anyone could remember. But McKenzie's research showed differently.

The building was built in 1350. Records showed it operated as a butcher shop for over a century. Lang's face went pale. 1350 was the year Black Death reached Cursey. The plague killed half of Inguyen. People died faster than they could be buried. Farms were abandoned. Animals were slaughtered and left to rot because there was no one left to butcher them. Entire villages were wiped out. But McKenzie's research revealed something more specific.

The cadets didn't see Cursey during the plague itself. They saw it afterward, decades afterward. The church tower construction halted in 1348. The shell of the half-built tower stood unfinished for decades. But the village buildings had glazed windows. The wool trade had returned. They were in recovery. McKenzie concluded the cadet saw Cursey as it was around 1420, 70 years after the plague, a village that survived, but the quiet wasn't gone. The trauma of 1350 burned so deeply into Cursey that it could still be experienced six centuries later. The land remembered the plague, the absence of life in a place where hundreds died in agony over a period of months. They didn't travel to a parallel universe, they traveled to a memory.

The watchers in the windows weren't plagued victims. They were the descendants, the survivors, living in houses where their grandparents died, walking streets where bodies were stacked into piles because there wasn't enough living to bury the dead. The trauma passed down. The fear encoded in the village itself. 600 years apart, they made eye contact through time.

The green oxen were the echo. Animals slaughtered in the early days of the outbreak, hung in the butcher's shop, and then abandoned as the butcher himself sickened and died, the meat rotted because there was no one to cook it, no one to eat it, no one left alive. That image, the waste, the death, the futility, burned into the building so deeply that three boys from Scotland and England walked through the door and saw it again. The three men stayed in touch but never spoke about what they saw.

They didn't need to, because on quiet Sunday mornings, when church bells ring in the distance, they still check the street outside their windows, making sure no one is standing there. Looking back. Gat around. This happened, and it's still unsolved. Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, February 1983. Don Decker stood in the bathroom of his friend's house, washing his hands in the sink.

The temperature dropped 30 degrees in a second he could see his breath. Then he felt a drop of water hit the top of his head. He looked up at the ceiling. Dry. He looked down at the floor. Nothing. The water didn't fall from above. It materialized mid-air.

and flew sideways. The water seemed alive, and it was hunting him. Don Decker served time at Monroe County Correctional Facility for receiving stolen property. Don was 21 years old. The stolen property charge was minor, tools taken from a construction site. He got 18 months. In February 1983, he got a temporary furlough to attend his grandfather's funeral. Don felt relieved, but he also felt rage. Not at his grandfather, at himself. For years, he'd pushed down what that old man did to him, the abuse, the way nobody believed to him when he tried to tell them. At the funeral, Don stood in the back and watched relatives cry for a man who terrorized him since childhood. His hands started shaking. His chest fell tight. He couldn't breathe. He left before the service ended. During his furlough, Don stayed with

friends Bob and Jeannie Kie Kiefer. That night, Don went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. The temperature dropped 30 degrees. He could see his breath. Then he felt a drop of water hit the top of his head. The ceiling was dry. So was the floor. So were the walls. The water was just appearing. The Kiefer's called the police. A patrolman arrived at the house expecting a plumbing emergency. What he found wasn't a leaky pipe. He watched water materialize inches from the ceiling and fall on Don Decker wherever he stood. They checked the pipes, the roof, the walls. Everything was dry. The water was, the water was. The water was, existed only in the space around Don. When Don's furlough ended, he returned to the prison. He thought he'd be safe inside the concrete walls. He thought whatever happened to him at the Kiefer's house would stay behind. It was wrong. Don sat in his cell, solid concrete, no pipes in the ceiling, no windows to the outside. The sounds of the other prisoners suddenly faded away. The air turned cold. A mist formed near the ceiling. Don looked up. A drop of water hit his face, and than another. Then it began to pour inside his concrete cell. Don screamed for the guards.

Officer Walbert ran over expecting a broken toilet or some kind of prank. He looked through the bars and saw the water. It wasn't collecting on the ceiling. The water materialized a few inches below the ceiling, then fell in a steady stream onto Don Decker. Walbert unlocked the door and stepped inside. He got wet immediately. He checked the ceiling with his hands, bone dry. He checked the walls. also dry. The water existed only in the air around Don. Now, Wolbert was a straight arrow. He dealt in facts, evidence, things that could be measured and explained. This was impossible, but his uniform was soaked. And the smell. It didn't smell like tap water or condensation. It smelled like Ozo, like the air after a

lightning strike, like a thunderstorm was trapped in a concrete box. Don sat on his bunk and muttered to himself. Walbert slowly back toward the door. He needed to tell the lieutenant. Walbert was a corrections officer for 12 years. He'd seen riots, stabbings, men lose their minds, but he'd never seen the laws of physics break, not until tonight. Warbert looked at Don for an explanation,

but Don said nothing. He rocked back and forth with his eyes wide. Then he looked up and smiled, but it wasn't his smile. It was someone else's. Word spread through the prison. Lieutenant Keenhol didn't believe in ghosts or demons or psychic phenomena.

He believed in order, discipline, and rational explanations. He heard the reports from his officers and assumed they played some kind of elaborate joke. He marched to the cell block and ordered Walbert to bring Decker to his office. Don was escorted in and sat in a chair across from the lieutenant's desk. A captain sat nearby as a witness. Keenhold didn't waste time. He ordered Don to make it rain in here right now. Don looked at him with a blank expression.

In an argue or protest, he concentrated. Then the room was silent, the fluorescent lights flickered, and a single drop of water hit the lieutenant's desk. Then the captain looked down. A patch of water appeared on his shirt. It spread across the fabric, soaked through in seconds. His jacket stayed dry. His skin stayed dry.

The lieutenant stood up and backed away from his own desk. Then the violets started. An invisible force struck down from the side. It lifted him out of the chair and threw him against the wall. The captain described what he saw. He flew across the room with the force as though a bus had hit him. I'd never seen anything like this. Officers rushed your strain in.

Big men trained to handle prison riots, and they couldn't hold him. Don suddenly had strength far beyond his size. He snarled and thrashed and spoke in a voice that didn't sound like his own. Three deep scratches appeared on his neck, claw marks. as if something invisible raped him with sharp fingers. The officers watched the skin split open in real time. Blood welled up and ran down his collar. There was no weapon, no source.

The skin just split open. The guards were right there, close enough to touch him. They saw this happen. Don collapsed to the floor and convulsed. The water continued to fall. It rained in the lieutenant's office. It rained in the hallway. It rained wherever Don went.

Then new scratches covered Don's cheeks. Three parallel lines on each side, while six officers watched. Sullivan slipped the gold cross into Don's hand. He screamed and threw it to the floor. The metal burned his palm. The officers saw the mark. The lieutenant was running out of ideas. He called the prison chaplain.

The chaplain walked into the chaos, saw the water, saw the fear in the eyes of the experienced officers. He opened his Bible and began to read. The water reacted. It turned from rain into a swirling mist that surrounded Don, and then the smell changed, no longer ozone but sulfur. Then the chaplain felt pressure on his throat, like an invisible hand squeezing. He choked. He couldn't finish the prayer.

Whatever hell Don Decker was stronger than God. The witnesses were police officers, correctional officers, prison officials, and a chaplain. These were men trained to observe, trained to detect lies, trained to maintain order in chaotic situations. They filed official reports. on record. They submitted to interviews. The patrolling who responded to the Kiefer home filed an official report. Officer Walbert maintains to this day that everything he saw was real. I've been a cop for 12 years. I've never seen anything like this. The water fell, but there was no source. Lieutenant Kainhold confirmed the water phenomena.

Multiple guards corroborated the scratches appearing on Don's skin. The Kiefer family described identical events in their home. These witnesses had no reason to lie. Still, they were ridiculed, but they couldn't deny what they saw with their own eyes, felt with their own hands, and smelled with their own noses. Don Decker was released a few days after the incident's peaked. He left Stroudsburg, and the rain stopped. The prison dried out.

Don eventually settled into a normal life, married, had children. The phenomenon never went away, but never returned with the same intensity. Years later, a documentary crew came to Stroudsburg to film a story for Unsolved Mysteries. This was nine years after the prison incident. On the last day of filming, the crew woke up in their hotel. Two inches of water covered the floors of their rooms. The hallway was flooded. No broken pipes.

No leaks. Just water that appeared overnight. Parapsychologists have a name for this. Recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis, R.S.P.K. It's been documented over 100 times. people who go through extreme trauma experience physical effects. Don had a lifetime of rage locked inside him, years of abuse with no outlet. When his grandfather died, that rage had to go somewhere. So it turned into rain. It turned into invisible claws. It turned into a force, powerful

enough to terrify an entire prison. Don's story proves that the human mind under enough pressure can break reality itself. We walk around every day with that potential locked inside of us, all of us. Most of the time the safeties hold, the triggers they'll get pulled. But sometimes, for some people, the pressure becomes too much. And the world we think we understand starts to fall apart. Don Decker settled into a normal life. He got married and had kids, though he never told his kids what happened. But sometimes when his children cry, like really cry, the kind that comes from deep hurt, a single drop of water appears on their bedroom ceiling. But Don wipes it away before anyone can see. Gather around. This happened and it's still unsolved. April 5th, 2015. A YouTube channel appeared

with a nonsense name, unfavorable semicircle. That first day, that channel uploaded 1,247 videos within 24 hours. The first was titled, The Sagittarius Symbol followed by 980708. It was four seconds long, a brown background, no sound. Then another video of it. appeared and another and another. The channel uploaded a video every few minutes, then every few seconds. Within nine months, it posted over 72,000 videos. No human could do that. The internet noticed they thought it was a bot or a glitch.

Then they started combining the videos. Thousands of frames assembled into composites. An image appeared. A man in what looked like a suit, but he had no face. His face wasn't blurred. It wasn't there, like someone had erased it from reality. To understand how strange, unfavorable semicircle was, you need to understand the scale. YouTube's upload system has limits, verification, processing, compression.

Each video takes time. A dedicated creator might upload one video per day. A prolific channel might manage 10 or more per week. Unfavorable semicircle started at one video every 10 minutes, around the clock. Then it accelerated. By February 5, 2016, the rate hit three videos per minute. No breaks, no pauses, for months.

YouTube's infrastructure in 2015 wasn't built for this. They limited creators to 10 to 15 uploads a day unless you had a special agreement. Even verified channels with dedicated upload pipelines couldn't sustain more than 50 videos a day. So three per minute? That required direct server access, backend permissions that shouldn't exist.

And the content made no sense. Each video is different, but they followed patterns. Abstract shapes, flickering colors, bursts of static. Some were four seconds long, some lasted hours. The longest ran 11 hours. Some were completely silent. Others contained high-pitched screeching that made your ears hurt. The visuals looked like test patterns from a television station.

Pixels arranged in grids, geometric shapes that pulsed and shifted. Colors that flash so rapidly they triggered head. Some viewers reported nausea, disorientation. When Reddit users said he watched for three hours and lost track of time, when he checked the clock, six hours had passed. Another reported ringing in his ears that lasted for days. And the titles were equally strange. Numbers mostly,

1860-9-847, but sometimes symbols appeared. The Sagittarius symbol followed by the word D-Loc, Sagittarius, brother. brother, Sagittarius, Brill. The Sagittarius symbol showed up constantly. And it wasn't typed. It was hand-drawn. Each one slightly different, like someone sketched it frame by frame, thousands of times. That kind of repetition meant this was intentional. The channel flew under the radar for months. Then in November 2015, someone in Reddit posted, found something weird.

The thread had three responses. By December, it had 200. People built databases, wrote scripts to download and analyze every video. They use spectrograms to visualize audio, custom Python scripts to extract frames. One user built a database tracking every upload timestamp looking for patterns in the intervals. By December, the investigation had its own subreddit with detailed documentation of every discovery. Reddit user Jackalac a ding-dong, that was his handle, he spent months on the audio files. I felt really uneasy listening to this, trying to pick out the sequence. The whole thing is quite unsettling.

They treated it like a puzzle, a message hidden in the noise. One composite showed the man with no face. Another showed space imagery, satellites, celestial objects. And buried in the audio was a voice reading coordinates, latitude and longitude, pointing to a spot somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. During the Cold War, intelligence agencies used shortwave radio to communicate with sleeper agents. These were called number stations, anonymous broadcasts that transmitted strings of digits day after day, year after year. The numbers meant nothing to anyone who didn't have the cipher. To everyone else, they were just noise.

Some researchers believed unfavorable semicircle was the digital equivalent, modern numbers station hiding in plain sight on the world's largest video platform. Alan Woodward, a computer security specialist at University of Surrey, said it was too complex to be a number station. Recruitment puzzles like Ciccated 3301 were announced. This wasn't. Whatever unfavorable semicircle was, it wasn't advertising. The channel had almost no subscribers.

It wasn't trying to go viral. It was broadcasting into the void. And whoever was supposed to receive the message already knew where to look. But then something unexpected happened. The channel started reacting, to the investigators. The Reddit community would post a theory about a specific type of video, and the channel would stop uploading that type. They would decode a title pattern, and the channel would switch naming conventions. They would identify a recurring symbol, and the symbol would

disappear from future uploads. On January 12, 2016, a Reddit thread identified a pattern in the Sagittarius symbols. Within four hours, the channel uploaded 47 new videos. Not one contained that symbol. Something was watching them, listening, and adapting in real time, monitoring, and responding. This proved there was an intelligence behind unfavorable semicircle, human or otherwise. On February 25, 2016, the BBC published an article calling it YouTube's strangest mystery. Hours later, at 1540 Eastern, YouTube suspended the channel. They cited terms of service violations, specifically spam. The upload volume was crashing their systems. Four days before the ban, Reddit user It's Safer Endores, registered unfavorable semicircle.com.

He built a database, archived thousands of videos. He saved 23,000 videos before the ban, almost a third of the total output. Hours of footage, gigabytes of data. The mystery seemed over. But three weeks later, it came back. A new channel appeared. Same name. Same aesthetic.

Same flood of uploads. It picked up exactly where the original left off, as if the suspension never happened. But this time the content was different, more aggressive. Videos stretched to 10 hours long, 10 hours of silence and a black screen, with a single pixel changing color once per hour. It was testing patience, testing commitment, seeing who would watch. Then came to lock videos, a series that, when played together in sequence, created something strange. When the frames were combined side by side, an image appeared.

A Reddit user made the discovery. In 2022, the creator confirmed what it showed. The Voyager Golden Record, the message humanity sent to aliens in 1977. Unfavorable semicircle was responding to our message to the stars. The final broadcast came without warning, encoded in a garbled post on the channel's Google Plus page. When decoded, it revealed coordinates, latitude and longitude. The investigators typed them into Google Maps. They expected to find a building, or a military base, a server farm, something that would explain everything.

The pin dropped in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, miles from any landmass. 3,000 feet of water, dark and cold. And according to old sonar data, an object is down there. Now, we don't know what it is. We only know it's 130 feet long and made a metal. Unfavorable semicircle was eventually banned for good. The creator never came forward. No art student claimed it as a project.

No ARG company took credit. No intelligence agency admitted involvement. It remains one of the internet's purest mysteries. The theories multiplied. Some believed it was a stress test, someone probing YouTube's compression algorithms looking for vulnerabilities. Others thought it was a botnet demonstration. A few thought it was a recruitment puzzle,

a way for a shadowy organization to identify codebreakers and analysts. But before the channel disappeared completely, one final video appeared, September 15th, 2017, Reset Strange YD. Then the channel deleted itself. Every video, vanished. That same day, NASA retired the Cassini Space Probe after 20 years, the probe that photographed Saturn that explored the outer planets. Unfavorable semicircle ended the day Cassini burned up in Saturn's atmosphere. In 2022, someone claiming to be the creator of Brick's Silence on Twitter. He said it was an outsider art project.

The goal is to upload the most number of YouTube's ever to see if people would watch. But that doesn't explain everything. It doesn't explain the composite image of the faceless man. It doesn't explain the coordinates to an empty spot in the ocean. And it doesn't explain why the channel reacted to investigators in real time, changing its behavior when people got too close. Engineers who worked on the case said the videos bypassed normal processing. They went straight to YouTube servers.

No verification, no compression checks. It was like someone had hard-coded a pathway that the platform's own systems didn't recognize. When they finally traced the upload source, it led to a data center in Iceland. The equipment was offline and had been for months. After the channel disappeared, copycat accounts appeared, dozens of them. Reposting the original videos, some claim to be archivists, some claim to be the original creator. One account posted new videos in the same style, at the same impossible upload rate. It lasted six days before YouTube shut it down.

Then another appeared. Then another. Like the signal was trying to stay alive. YouTube's infrastructure can handle millions of uploads per day, but one account uploading three videos per minute for months? That broke something. But when YouTube finally banned the account, they didn't just delete the videos.

They closed the upload pathway, sealed it. But in 2022, that door opened again. Different channel, same upload rate, gone 48 hours before any. when noticed. Now what about the coordinates? A spot in the Atlantic, under 3,000 feet of water. And according to that old sonar data, something's down there, 130 feet long and metallic.

The sonar reading dated back to 1982, a research vessel conducting deep ocean mapping. They logged the object, ran multiple passes to confirm. The signature didn't match any known geological formation. The crew reported it to the Navy. The Navy classified it. Every few months, summer reports hearing the signal again, but it's not coming from YouTube. It's coming from the bottom of the ocean. Thank you so much for hanging out today.

My name is AJ. This is the Wi-Files, and that was a campfire story. No debunking, no analysis, just a creepy story to scare you in the kids. And that one is true and unsolved. Now, if you had fun, I'd appreciate it if you can like, subscribe, comment, and share. That stuff really helps. And like what's topics we cover here, today's was recommended by you. So if there's a story you'd like to see, go to the Wi-Files.

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Until next time you say, be kind. and know that you are appreciated. Scenario 51, a secret code inside the Bible said I would. I love my UFOs and paranormal fun as well as music. So I'm singing the like I should. And it never ends. No, it never ends. Daddy I got stuck inside males home with MKL truck,

being only two of with shadow people. His name was Cole The under Stations, planets are boat And where the dark watchers