Adema Ranch, Tennessee.

Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the notorious group known as the Abelites.

What really happened behind the walls of this "town"? Let’s take a look. We managed to obtain a unique testimony from a surviving member of the Abelites. This group was founded in the late seventies by a self-proclaimed prophet, Jan Tars. This man built a strong core community. After the controversies surrounding Jonestown and other cults—ahem, groups—he withdrew into isolation. He was known for his fiery sermons. What set him apart from the rest? It was his obsession with acquiring ancient religious texts.

During the murderous rampage of the Son of Sam and the subsequent fear gripping the streets of New York, Jan Tars appealed in his sermons for vigilance and warned against the Necronomicon. These media appearances and his radio presence led directly to the community closing its doors further, shifting their lifestyle deep into anonymity. We, however, bring you an exclusive transcript of an interview with a survivor. His condition was to remain anonymous; therefore, he will be referred to as Matthew.

Tape 1

Eyewitness: Matthew

Matthew: "That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up...

'You're not leaving just like that!' screamed Ciara. She was beside herself with rage, looking like a pit bull with its jaws locked. The sky darkened in an instant, as if an eclipse had struck. Thunder was loud at first, but it kept rolling faster and faster, sounding like artillery fire. Lightning struck all around us, snapping trees like toothpicks. The roofs of our houses splintered beneath them. Something was coming. I knew it, we all knew it. It's an instinct—deep down inside you. You don't know it's there, but back then, we knew: a beast, a predator, was watching us."

Interviewer: "Please, can you start from the beginning? I know this must be difficult for you."

Matthew: "Which beginning do you want to know? Jan Tars was a good man. The fact that he didn't live to see the massacre... I'm glad he didn't have to witness it. Why do I have to be the one to pass on the message?" (Cries)

Interviewer: "Take your time. It's alright."

Matthew: "No, I have to pass it on. They must know."

Interviewer: "Let's start shortly before the death of your leader."

Matthew: "He would have never wanted that. Jan Tars believed in what he said. He wasn't like the others. It hit him hard when the panic started."

Interviewer: "What panic do you mean?"

Matthew: "The Satanic Panic. Manson and the rest of them. It became a sensation. Interviews with a werewolf. A possessed dog urging people to commit murder. Berkowitz and his theatrical scenes. Manson drowning in his craving for popularity. Sinners ruining our image. He took it very hard. He was helping us!"

Interviewer: "Was he successful in that?"

Matthew: "He was. Mr. Tars warned us about the outside world. He guided us to build a self-sufficient community. Not everyone liked it, but he put those people in their place quickly. He didn't even have to exorcise them."

Interviewer: "So Mr. Tars always had occult inclinations?"

Matthew: "Spiritual, I would say. He studied the Scriptures. He searched for what our ancestors preserved for us. He sent us on expeditions. It was an honor to go out searching for sacred relics."

Interviewer: "Including the Necronomicon, written by Abdul Alhazred in the Nameless City?"

Matthew: "I wasn't in the inner circle. To get there, a person had to pass a test. I never made it that far. But yes, he searched for that text too."

Interviewer: "And did he find this infamous grimoire?"

Matthew: "You talk about things you don't understand. I'd advise you not to play with fire. One of the expeditions actually discovered a transcript of the Necronomicon. They brought it back about a month ago. A man had the transcript of the book—supposedly from excavations in Afghanistan, or maybe from some forgotten museum collection. Tars was thrilled. The whole event was celebrated. He was willing to give anything for that book. The man arrived and was immediately housed in the guest residence. Whatever he wanted, he got."

Interviewer: "Anything?"

Matthew: "Yes—women, alcohol, whatever food he desired. People were sent out for luxury goods, expensive wines. When he wanted young men, young men went to him. He was the devil's messenger."

Interviewer: "Tars didn't object to that?"

Matthew: "You don't understand. This was about lost knowledge. He had to do it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have endured it."

(Note: Jan Tars had previously been accused by young girls of, let's say, inappropriate behavior.)

Matthew: "You don't understand. That has nothing to do with what I need to tell you."

Interviewer: "How did the transaction end?"

Matthew: "It was fourteen days of debauchery. But the lost manuscript finally found its scholar. Not everyone saw it clearly, but it was right."

Interviewer: "Mr. Jan Tars died a few days later, is that correct?"

Matthew: "I get that you don't see it, but he fulfilled his mission. He read it, and even though it was a severe trial, he completed its mandate. Divine joy filled him."

Interviewer: "Do you mean some kind of ritual?"

Matthew: "Yes, it was necessary to perform a welcoming procedure, just as it was meant to be done. That morning, he arrived."

Interviewer: "Who arrived?"

Matthew: "A being of light. Suddenly, a silver glow appeared, and out of it walked a wise being with a serene face. He emerged from that energy. When he spread his wings, the air filled with the scent of myrrh. He revealed himself to everyone, not just the inner circle. Jan Tars did it—he brought an Angel among us."

Interviewer: "Why did Tars die afterwards, then?"

Matthew: "He had fulfilled his purpose. He was enjoying the fruits of his labor and conversing with the being. But then, during one of his sermons, God called him home."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, called him?"

Matthew: "It was heart failure. He was of advanced age. His era ended then and there."

Interviewer: "But the Angel didn't disappear?"

Matthew: "No, our guest remained with us. There was sorrow, and he watched us. At first, it was terrifying. It filled me with immense fear. He had no emotions—or if he did, he didn't show them. He just watched us. Around him, the world felt more vibrant. He was larger than regular men, almost like a basketball player. He was a great listener."

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel! Yes, after Jan Tars died, nobody knew what we were supposed to do. The Angel was our comfort. Ciara came out draped in black and announced a period of mourning. People were supposed to stay in their homes and pray for Jan for at least three hours."

Interviewer: "Was that normal?"

Matthew: "No, those were extra prayers. In our normal routine, prayer had its assigned one-hour slot. But this was an exceptional situation."

Interviewer: "What happened next? Was there any relief?"

Matthew: "I'll probably disappoint you, but it wasn't the kind of relief you're thinking of. Ciara stepped forward again, still in mourning clothes. Some women wept and wailed. But then she said what we were afraid to even imagine. He was chosen and called. The Angel didn't bring back Jan, our shepherd, but chose Kilián Tars instead."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "At first, yes. Then I understood and cried out. A new era had begun, and Jan wouldn't have had enough energy anymore. Kilián would show that we were right—show people the true path. Can we pause this?"

Interviewer: "Of course, take as much time as you need. I'll prepare the next tape."

Tape 2

Interviewer: "How are you feeling today?"

Matthew: "It's hard. Remembering like this... these aren't pleasant moments."

Interviewer: "Last time we ended at the start of the new era for the Abelites. Is that right?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you continue with what happened next?"

Matthew: "Then a heavy trial awaited us. It was demanding. The Angel watched us, but it was probably trivial to him. That's how I see it now, too."

Interviewer: "What kind of trial?"

Matthew: "Some questioned the succession. They didn't believe Kilián was ready. It was their test of faith. They had their own..." (Spits) "...false prophet. They took the wrong path."

Interviewer: "Did they leave the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. He wouldn't allow that."

Interviewer: "Who wouldn't allow it?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He had the Angel on his side. He took him into his protection. Ciara brought Jan's word. There was no room for doubters."

Interviewer: "Was the Angel kept in the compound?"

Matthew: "Where else would he find a place to rest his head? Kilián was a prophet; God spoke to him. Him and the Angel—it was obvious."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenters—the, uh, stray sheep?"

Matthew: "They caused trouble. Stoking fires, provoking people. In their ranks was Jan's favorite—that Gabe, the one who was supposed to be the chosen one. They were delusional."

Interviewer: "How did Kilián Tars handle it?"

Matthew: "With the Word."

Interviewer: "What kind of Word?"

Matthew: "He chose his faithful. Ciara remembered me and pointed me out to Kilián. He chose me above the others. We became his elite. I was elevated to a level I wouldn't have dared hope for. We were his staff; he was our shepherd."

Interviewer: "Something like an elite guard?"

Matthew: "Ah, yes, you could say that. Kilián conversed with God, who revealed to him how faithful we were. He chose us as his elite. It was an honor."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenting members?"

Matthew: "I know what you're driving at. But sometimes a little tough love is necessary. Sometimes you have to use the rod so the flock doesn't lose its way."

Interviewer: "You were that rod?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was our job. We did it well. I did it well—conscientiously and quickly."

Interviewer: "How did it go down?"

Matthew: "We came for the false prophet. We were supposed to bring him to Kilián. Despite his youth, Kilián was willing to save even such beings, to bring them back to the right path."

Interviewer: "Were there other beings?"

Matthew: "No. Only those who were misled."

Interviewer: "So what did you do?"

Matthew: "We brought him in."

Interviewer: "They just listened to you?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't listen. They were foolish. I told you we were the rod. It was necessary."

Interviewer: "So you neutralized them?"

Matthew: "Yes. It was a flawless strike." (Visibly smiles) "They didn't want to hand him over. But I didn't let myself be swayed. He gave us a symbol—the golden baton. That was our rod. That was our work. It was executed well."

Interviewer: "How did it end?"

Matthew: "We delivered Gabe straight to Kilián. He rewarded us with a day off and good food."

Interviewer: "What about the ones Kilián didn't want to see?"

Matthew: "Some understood quickly. Others walked on crutches." (Laughs) "They were stubborn, but that didn't intimidate us. Our strikes were precise and swift."

Interviewer: "Did anyone die?"

Matthew: "No. We were fulfilling a mission from on high. Only two remained in... what do you call it? A coma."

Interviewer: "What about the leader of the dissenters, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He didn't get it. Kilián sighed with sorrow. He came out soaked in sweat. He spoke to him; they even spoke with the Angel. He didn't understand. He was lost."

Interviewer: "Did you see them talking to the Angel?"

Matthew: "No, that wasn't my place. I had moved up high, but not to the very top among the most faithful." (Laughs)

Interviewer: "So what happened to the false successor, Jan Tars' friend, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He ended up on the pillory. He was exposed and chained there. After two days, the Devil took hold of him."

Interviewer: "Why do you think the Devil took hold of him?"

Matthew: "Because after a few nights, he started muttering. He went mad, begging and cursing. He paid no mind to who spoke to him. He didn't recognize Ciara. Two nights later, the Devil took him."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, took him?"

Matthew: "When I came on duty, I found him covered in blood. He was lifeless. Poor guy didn't understand he had strayed from the path."

Interviewer: "Did people attack him?"

Matthew: "No! How dare you. The others were following the true path. Unlike that lunatic. They wouldn't even dirty their boots on a stray like him."

Interviewer: "What about his followers? Didn't they want revenge?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't have time. They were sent to quarry stone for the roads. Kilián had a vision that many new members would come—people who would understand the truth. He gave them a chance to redeem themselves. He was good. Unfortunately, he had his quirks."

Interviewer: "What kind of quirks did you notice in him?"

Matthew: "He lived life to the fullest. It's not easy being that close to the light. He bought sports cars, motorcycles, and invited new members over to consult with him. He searched for them himself."

Interviewer: "Why did he need sports vehicles?"

Matthew: "He needed to be fast if he wanted to visit as many communities as possible."

Interviewer: "Why didn't the new members talk to you or other members?"

Matthew: "He carried a golden heart. He decided to seek out the Mary Magdalenes of this world. He invited them to his quarters, preached to them, and tried to cast out their addictions. They often screamed, but he never gave up."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "No. Some of the fallen women visited him repeatedly; they had many demons inside them. But he was persistent. Often he was so exhausted afterwards that some of us from the guard brought him the blood of God so he could recover."

Interviewer: "By 'blood of God,' do you mean communion wine?"

Matthew: "Yes, the red blood. He had a large cellar built, which he filled with bottles straight from Italy and France—the ones in Europe."

Interviewer: "Did he ever reward you like that?"

Matthew: "No, unfortunately. I often received his word only through Ciara. He was sometimes so exhausted he couldn't even walk. So Ciara would pass on the word or calm the others down."

Interviewer: "Were there any other dissenters?"

Matthew: "No, I didn't allow it. Besides, everyone saw. They knew what awaited them. You see, the body of a false prophet couldn't rest in our sacred soil, where the Angel, Jan, and Kilián had walked."

Interviewer: "What did you do?"

Matthew: "He ended up by the side of the road. Like roadkill. He didn't deserve anything more."

Interviewer: "Do you think the man in this photograph is your false prophet?"

(Takes the photograph and stares at it for a long time)

Matthew: "Yes, that's the fool."

(The interviewee confirmed that the heavily decomposed body marked as John Doe from date XXX is indeed their member, Gabe XXXX.)

Interviewer: "How are you feeling?"

Matthew: "Good. It's fine. I need to get this out of me."

Interviewer: "Excellent. Do you know what happened to Kilián Tars?"

Matthew: "God took him. He probably couldn't bear to watch him struggle and exhaust himself anymore."

Interviewer: "Do you know what happened to him?"

Matthew: "This. Do we have to talk about this? Is it necessary?"

Interviewer: "Did you find him?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you elaborate?"

Matthew: "He was... It was..." (Sighs) "...I couldn't even recognize him. His face was mangled. His body... he was like a ragdoll. Why... why did this have to happen?" (Breaks down into tears)

Interviewer: "Did Kilián Tars die by accident, then?"

Matthew: "NO! No. He took him. Why... why like this? He was in a rush. He was tired and in a rush. His goodness... why?" (Sobs loudly, muttering uncontrollably)

Interviewer: "What exactly do you mean? How did you find him?"

Matthew: "Kilián was rushing back on his motorcycle. He was in town spreading His word..." (Sobs) "...turning the lost back to his path... to his... it's so hard. He must have skidded. His bike flew into a tree. The ground was turned up..." (Visibly struggling) "...He lay by that tree. There was blood everywhere. It was terrible. I sent for Ciara." (Sobs)

"Do I have to finish this? He died. Right by that tree, probably on impact. By the time we carried him back, crowds had gathered. Everyone wanted to see him. They were weeping. We carried him into the chapel—where the light is strongest. No. I can't. No further. Stop."

"We will return to further recordings very soon—to what really happened at Adema Ranch."

by Hary Sykora

Adema Ranch, Tennessee.

Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the notorious group known as the Abelites.

What really happened behind the walls of this "town"? Let’s take a look. We managed to obtain a unique testimony from a surviving member of the Abelites. This group was founded in the late seventies by a self-proclaimed prophet, Jan Tars. This man built a strong core community. After the controversies surrounding Jonestown and other cults—ahem, groups—he withdrew into isolation. He was known for his fiery sermons. What set him apart from the rest? It was his obsession with acquiring ancient religious texts.

During the murderous rampage of the Son of Sam and the subsequent fear gripping the streets of New York, Jan Tars appealed in his sermons for vigilance and warned against the Necronomicon. These media appearances and his radio presence led directly to the community closing its doors further, shifting their lifestyle deep into anonymity. We, however, bring you an exclusive transcript of an interview with a survivor. His condition was to remain anonymous; therefore, he will be referred to as Matthew.

Tape 1

Eyewitness: Matthew

Matthew: "That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up...

'You're not leaving just like that!' screamed Ciara. She was beside herself with rage, looking like a pit bull with its jaws locked. The sky darkened in an instant, as if an eclipse had struck. Thunder was loud at first, but it kept rolling faster and faster, sounding like artillery fire. Lightning struck all around us, snapping trees like toothpicks. The roofs of our houses splintered beneath them. Something was coming. I knew it, we all knew it. It's an instinct—deep down inside you. You don't know it's there, but back then, we knew: a beast, a predator, was watching us."

Interviewer: "Please, can you start from the beginning? I know this must be difficult for you."

Matthew: "Which beginning do you want to know? Jan Tars was a good man. The fact that he didn't live to see the massacre... I'm glad he didn't have to witness it. Why do I have to be the one to pass on the message?" (Cries)

Interviewer: "Take your time. It's alright."

Matthew: "No, I have to pass it on. They must know."

Interviewer: "Let's start shortly before the death of your leader."

Matthew: "He would have never wanted that. Jan Tars believed in what he said. He wasn't like the others. It hit him hard when the panic started."

Interviewer: "What panic do you mean?"

Matthew: "The Satanic Panic. Manson and the rest of them. It became a sensation. Interviews with a werewolf. A possessed dog urging people to commit murder. Berkowitz and his theatrical scenes. Manson drowning in his craving for popularity. Sinners ruining our image. He took it very hard. He was helping us!"

Interviewer: "Was he successful in that?"

Matthew: "He was. Mr. Tars warned us about the outside world. He guided us to build a self-sufficient community. Not everyone liked it, but he put those people in their place quickly. He didn't even have to exorcise them."

Interviewer: "So Mr. Tars always had occult inclinations?"

Matthew: "Spiritual, I would say. He studied the Scriptures. He searched for what our ancestors preserved for us. He sent us on expeditions. It was an honor to go out searching for sacred relics."

Interviewer: "Including the Necronomicon, written by Abdul Alhazred in the Nameless City?"

Matthew: "I wasn't in the inner circle. To get there, a person had to pass a test. I never made it that far. But yes, he searched for that text too."

Interviewer: "And did he find this infamous grimoire?"

Matthew: "You talk about things you don't understand. I'd advise you not to play with fire. One of the expeditions actually discovered a transcript of the Necronomicon. They brought it back about a month ago. A man had the transcript of the book—supposedly from excavations in Afghanistan, or maybe from some forgotten museum collection. Tars was thrilled. The whole event was celebrated. He was willing to give anything for that book. The man arrived and was immediately housed in the guest residence. Whatever he wanted, he got."

Interviewer: "Anything?"

Matthew: "Yes—women, alcohol, whatever food he desired. People were sent out for luxury goods, expensive wines. When he wanted young men, young men went to him. He was the devil's messenger."

Interviewer: "Tars didn't object to that?"

Matthew: "You don't understand. This was about lost knowledge. He had to do it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have endured it."

(Note: Jan Tars had previously been accused by young girls of, let's say, inappropriate behavior.)

Matthew: "You don't understand. That has nothing to do with what I need to tell you."

Interviewer: "How did the transaction end?"

Matthew: "It was fourteen days of debauchery. But the lost manuscript finally found its scholar. Not everyone saw it clearly, but it was right."

Interviewer: "Mr. Jan Tars died a few days later, is that correct?"

Matthew: "I get that you don't see it, but he fulfilled his mission. He read it, and even though it was a severe trial, he completed its mandate. Divine joy filled him."

Interviewer: "Do you mean some kind of ritual?"

Matthew: "Yes, it was necessary to perform a welcoming procedure, just as it was meant to be done. That morning, he arrived."

Interviewer: "Who arrived?"

Matthew: "A being of light. Suddenly, a silver glow appeared, and out of it walked a wise being with a serene face. He emerged from that energy. When he spread his wings, the air filled with the scent of myrrh. He revealed himself to everyone, not just the inner circle. Jan Tars did it—he brought an Angel among us."

Interviewer: "Why did Tars die afterwards, then?"

Matthew: "He had fulfilled his purpose. He was enjoying the fruits of his labor and conversing with the being. But then, during one of his sermons, God called him home."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, called him?"

Matthew: "It was heart failure. He was of advanced age. His era ended then and there."

Interviewer: "But the Angel didn't disappear?"

Matthew: "No, our guest remained with us. There was sorrow, and he watched us. At first, it was terrifying. It filled me with immense fear. He had no emotions—or if he did, he didn't show them. He just watched us. Around him, the world felt more vibrant. He was larger than regular men, almost like a basketball player. He was a great listener."

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel! Yes, after Jan Tars died, nobody knew what we were supposed to do. The Angel was our comfort. Ciara came out draped in black and announced a period of mourning. People were supposed to stay in their homes and pray for Jan for at least three hours."

Interviewer: "Was that normal?"

Matthew: "No, those were extra prayers. In our normal routine, prayer had its assigned one-hour slot. But this was an exceptional situation."

Interviewer: "What happened next? Was there any relief?"

Matthew: "I'll probably disappoint you, but it wasn't the kind of relief you're thinking of. Ciara stepped forward again, still in mourning clothes. Some women wept and wailed. But then she said what we were afraid to even imagine. He was chosen and called. The Angel didn't bring back Jan, our shepherd, but chose Kilián Tars instead."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "At first, yes. Then I understood and cried out. A new era had begun, and Jan wouldn't have had enough energy anymore. Kilián would show that we were right—show people the true path. Can we pause this?"

Interviewer: "Of course, take as much time as you need. I'll prepare the next tape."

Tape 2

Interviewer: "How are you feeling today?"

Matthew: "It's hard. Remembering like this... these aren't pleasant moments."

Interviewer: "Last time we ended at the start of the new era for the Abelites. Is that right?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you continue with what happened next?"

Matthew: "Then a heavy trial awaited us. It was demanding. The Angel watched us, but it was probably trivial to him. That's how I see it now, too."

Interviewer: "What kind of trial?"

Matthew: "Some questioned the succession. They didn't believe Kilián was ready. It was their test of faith. They had their own..." (Spits) "...false prophet. They took the wrong path."

Interviewer: "Did they leave the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. He wouldn't allow that."

Interviewer: "Who wouldn't allow it?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He had the Angel on his side. He took him into his protection. Ciara brought Jan's word. There was no room for doubters."

Interviewer: "Was the Angel kept in the compound?"

Matthew: "Where else would he find a place to rest his head? Kilián was a prophet; God spoke to him. Him and the Angel—it was obvious."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenters—the, uh, stray sheep?"

Matthew: "They caused trouble. Stoking fires, provoking people. In their ranks was Jan's favorite—that Gabe, the one who was supposed to be the chosen one. They were delusional."

Interviewer: "How did Kilián Tars handle it?"

Matthew: "With the Word."

Interviewer: "What kind of Word?"

Matthew: "He chose his faithful. Ciara remembered me and pointed me out to Kilián. He chose me above the others. We became his elite. I was elevated to a level I wouldn't have dared hope for. We were his staff; he was our shepherd."

Interviewer: "Something like an elite guard?"

Matthew: "Ah, yes, you could say that. Kilián conversed with God, who revealed to him how faithful we were. He chose us as his elite. It was an honor."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenting members?"

Matthew: "I know what you're driving at. But sometimes a little tough love is necessary. Sometimes you have to use the rod so the flock doesn't lose its way."

Interviewer: "You were that rod?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was our job. We did it well. I did it well—conscientiously and quickly."

Interviewer: "How did it go down?"

Matthew: "We came for the false prophet. We were supposed to bring him to Kilián. Despite his youth, Kilián was willing to save even such beings, to bring them back to the right path."

Interviewer: "Were there other beings?"

Matthew: "No. Only those who were misled."

Interviewer: "So what did you do?"

Matthew: "We brought him in."

Interviewer: "They just listened to you?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't listen. They were foolish. I told you we were the rod. It was necessary."

Interviewer: "So you neutralized them?"

Matthew: "Yes. It was a flawless strike." (Visibly smiles) "They didn't want to hand him over. But I didn't let myself be swayed. He gave us a symbol—the golden baton. That was our rod. That was our work. It was executed well."

Interviewer: "How did it end?"

Matthew: "We delivered Gabe straight to Kilián. He rewarded us with a day off and good food."

Interviewer: "What about the ones Kilián didn't want to see?"

Matthew: "Some understood quickly. Others walked on crutches." (Laughs) "They were stubborn, but that didn't intimidate us. Our strikes were precise and swift."

Interviewer: "Did anyone die?"

Matthew: "No. We were fulfilling a mission from on high. Only two remained in... what do you call it? A coma."

Interviewer: "What about the leader of the dissenters, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He didn't get it. Kilián sighed with sorrow. He came out soaked in sweat. He spoke to him; they even spoke with the Angel. He didn't understand. He was lost."

Interviewer: "Did you see them talking to the Angel?"

Matthew: "No, that wasn't my place. I had moved up high, but not to the very top among the most faithful." (Laughs)

Interviewer: "So what happened to the false successor, Jan Tars' friend, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He ended up on the pillory. He was exposed and chained there. After two days, the Devil took hold of him."

Interviewer: "Why do you think the Devil took hold of him?"

Matthew: "Because after a few nights, he started muttering. He went mad, begging and cursing. He paid no mind to who spoke to him. He didn't recognize Ciara. Two nights later, the Devil took him."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, took him?"

Matthew: "When I came on duty, I found him covered in blood. He was lifeless. Poor guy didn't understand he had strayed from the path."

Interviewer: "Did people attack him?"

Matthew: "No! How dare you. The others were following the true path. Unlike that lunatic. They wouldn't even dirty their boots on a stray like him."

Interviewer: "What about his followers? Didn't they want revenge?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't have time. They were sent to quarry stone for the roads. Kilián had a vision that many new members would come—people who would understand the truth. He gave them a chance to redeem themselves. He was good. Unfortunately, he had his quirks."

Interviewer: "What kind of quirks did you notice in him?"

Matthew: "He lived life to the fullest. It's not easy being that close to the light. He bought sports cars, motorcycles, and invited new members over to consult with him. He searched for them himself."

Interviewer: "Why did he need sports vehicles?"

Matthew: "He needed to be fast if he wanted to visit as many communities as possible."

Interviewer: "Why didn't the new members talk to you or other members?"

Matthew: "He carried a golden heart. He decided to seek out the Mary Magdalenes of this world. He invited them to his quarters, preached to them, and tried to cast out their addictions. They often screamed, but he never gave up."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "No. Some of the fallen women visited him repeatedly; they had many demons inside them. But he was persistent. Often he was so exhausted afterwards that some of us from the guard brought him the blood of God so he could recover."

Interviewer: "By 'blood of God,' do you mean communion wine?"

Matthew: "Yes, the red blood. He had a large cellar built, which he filled with bottles straight from Italy and France—the ones in Europe."

Interviewer: "Did he ever reward you like that?"

Matthew: "No, unfortunately. I often received his word only through Ciara. He was sometimes so exhausted he couldn't even walk. So Ciara would pass on the word or calm the others down."

Interviewer: "Were there any other dissenters?"

Matthew: "No, I didn't allow it. Besides, everyone saw. They knew what awaited them. You see, the body of a false prophet couldn't rest in our sacred soil, where the Angel, Jan, and Kilián had walked."

Interviewer: "What did you do?"

Matthew: "He ended up by the side of the road. Like roadkill. He didn't deserve anything more."

Interviewer: "Do you think the man in this photograph is your false prophet?"

(Takes the photograph and stares at it for a long time)

Matthew: "Yes, that's the fool."

(The interviewee confirmed that the heavily decomposed body marked as John Doe from date XXX is indeed their member, Gabe XXXX.)

Interviewer: "How are you feeling?"

Matthew: "Good. It's fine. I need to get this out of me."

Interviewer: "Excellent. Do you know what happened to Kilián Tars?"

Matthew: "God took him. He probably couldn't bear to watch him struggle and exhaust himself anymore."

Interviewer: "Do you know what happened to him?"

Matthew: "This. Do we have to talk about this? Is it necessary?"

Interviewer: "Did you find him?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you elaborate?"

Matthew: "He was... It was..." (Sighs) "...I couldn't even recognize him. His face was mangled. His body... he was like a ragdoll. Why... why did this have to happen?" (Breaks down into tears)

Interviewer: "Did Kilián Tars die by accident, then?"

Matthew: "NO! No. He took him. Why... why like this? He was in a rush. He was tired and in a rush. His goodness... why?" (Sobs loudly, muttering uncontrollably)

Interviewer: "What exactly do you mean? How did you find him?"

Matthew: "Kilián was rushing back on his motorcycle. He was in town spreading His word..." (Sobs) "...turning the lost back to his path... to his... it's so hard. He must have skidded. His bike flew into a tree. The ground was turned up..." (Visibly struggling) "...He lay by that tree. There was blood everywhere. It was terrible. I sent for Ciara." (Sobs)

"Do I have to finish this? He died. Right by that tree, probably on impact. By the time we carried him back, crowds had gathered. Everyone wanted to see him. They were weeping. We carried him into the chapel—where the light is strongest. No. I can't. No further. Stop."

"We will return to further recordings very soon—to what really happened at Adema Ranch."

by Hary Sykora

Adema Ranch, Tennessee.

Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the notorious group known as the Abelites.

What really happened behind the walls of this "town"? Let’s take a look. We managed to obtain a unique testimony from a surviving member of the Abelites. This group was founded in the late seventies by a self-proclaimed prophet, Jan Tars. This man built a strong core community. After the controversies surrounding Jonestown and other cults—ahem, groups—he withdrew into isolation. He was known for his fiery sermons. What set him apart from the rest? It was his obsession with acquiring ancient religious texts.

During the murderous rampage of the Son of Sam and the subsequent fear gripping the streets of New York, Jan Tars appealed in his sermons for vigilance and warned against the Necronomicon. These media appearances and his radio presence led directly to the community closing its doors further, shifting their lifestyle deep into anonymity. We, however, bring you an exclusive transcript of an interview with a survivor. His condition was to remain anonymous; therefore, he will be referred to as Matthew.

Tape 1

Eyewitness: Matthew

Matthew: "That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up...

'You're not leaving just like that!' screamed Ciara. She was beside herself with rage, looking like a pit bull with its jaws locked. The sky darkened in an instant, as if an eclipse had struck. Thunder was loud at first, but it kept rolling faster and faster, sounding like artillery fire. Lightning struck all around us, snapping trees like toothpicks. The roofs of our houses splintered beneath them. Something was coming. I knew it, we all knew it. It's an instinct—deep down inside you. You don't know it's there, but back then, we knew: a beast, a predator, was watching us."

Interviewer: "Please, can you start from the beginning? I know this must be difficult for you."

Matthew: "Which beginning do you want to know? Jan Tars was a good man. The fact that he didn't live to see the massacre... I'm glad he didn't have to witness it. Why do I have to be the one to pass on the message?" (Cries)

Interviewer: "Take your time. It's alright."

Matthew: "No, I have to pass it on. They must know."

Interviewer: "Let's start shortly before the death of your leader."

Matthew: "He would have never wanted that. Jan Tars believed in what he said. He wasn't like the others. It hit him hard when the panic started."

Interviewer: "What panic do you mean?"

Matthew: "The Satanic Panic. Manson and the rest of them. It became a sensation. Interviews with a werewolf. A possessed dog urging people to commit murder. Berkowitz and his theatrical scenes. Manson drowning in his craving for popularity. Sinners ruining our image. He took it very hard. He was helping us!"

Interviewer: "Was he successful in that?"

Matthew: "He was. Mr. Tars warned us about the outside world. He guided us to build a self-sufficient community. Not everyone liked it, but he put those people in their place quickly. He didn't even have to exorcise them."

Interviewer: "So Mr. Tars always had occult inclinations?"

Matthew: "Spiritual, I would say. He studied the Scriptures. He searched for what our ancestors preserved for us. He sent us on expeditions. It was an honor to go out searching for sacred relics."

Interviewer: "Including the Necronomicon, written by Abdul Alhazred in the Nameless City?"

Matthew: "I wasn't in the inner circle. To get there, a person had to pass a test. I never made it that far. But yes, he searched for that text too."

Interviewer: "And did he find this infamous grimoire?"

Matthew: "You talk about things you don't understand. I'd advise you not to play with fire. One of the expeditions actually discovered a transcript of the Necronomicon. They brought it back about a month ago. A man had the transcript of the book—supposedly from excavations in Afghanistan, or maybe from some forgotten museum collection. Tars was thrilled. The whole event was celebrated. He was willing to give anything for that book. The man arrived and was immediately housed in the guest residence. Whatever he wanted, he got."

Interviewer: "Anything?"

Matthew: "Yes—women, alcohol, whatever food he desired. People were sent out for luxury goods, expensive wines. When he wanted young men, young men went to him. He was the devil's messenger."

Interviewer: "Tars didn't object to that?"

Matthew: "You don't understand. This was about lost knowledge. He had to do it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have endured it."

(Note: Jan Tars had previously been accused by young girls of, let's say, inappropriate behavior.)

Matthew: "You don't understand. That has nothing to do with what I need to tell you."

Interviewer: "How did the transaction end?"

Matthew: "It was fourteen days of debauchery. But the lost manuscript finally found its scholar. Not everyone saw it clearly, but it was right."

Interviewer: "Mr. Jan Tars died a few days later, is that correct?"

Matthew: "I get that you don't see it, but he fulfilled his mission. He read it, and even though it was a severe trial, he completed its mandate. Divine joy filled him."

Interviewer: "Do you mean some kind of ritual?"

Matthew: "Yes, it was necessary to perform a welcoming procedure, just as it was meant to be done. That morning, he arrived."

Interviewer: "Who arrived?"

Matthew: "A being of light. Suddenly, a silver glow appeared, and out of it walked a wise being with a serene face. He emerged from that energy. When he spread his wings, the air filled with the scent of myrrh. He revealed himself to everyone, not just the inner circle. Jan Tars did it—he brought an Angel among us."

Interviewer: "Why did Tars die afterwards, then?"

Matthew: "He had fulfilled his purpose. He was enjoying the fruits of his labor and conversing with the being. But then, during one of his sermons, God called him home."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, called him?"

Matthew: "It was heart failure. He was of advanced age. His era ended then and there."

Interviewer: "But the Angel didn't disappear?"

Matthew: "No, our guest remained with us. There was sorrow, and he watched us. At first, it was terrifying. It filled me with immense fear. He had no emotions—or if he did, he didn't show them. He just watched us. Around him, the world felt more vibrant. He was larger than regular men, almost like a basketball player. He was a great listener."

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel! Yes, after Jan Tars died, nobody knew what we were supposed to do. The Angel was our comfort. Ciara came out draped in black and announced a period of mourning. People were supposed to stay in their homes and pray for Jan for at least three hours."

Interviewer: "Was that normal?"

Matthew: "No, those were extra prayers. In our normal routine, prayer had its assigned one-hour slot. But this was an exceptional situation."

Interviewer: "What happened next? Was there any relief?"

Matthew: "I'll probably disappoint you, but it wasn't the kind of relief you're thinking of. Ciara stepped forward again, still in mourning clothes. Some women wept and wailed. But then she said what we were afraid to even imagine. He was chosen and called. The Angel didn't bring back Jan, our shepherd, but chose Kilián Tars instead."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "At first, yes. Then I understood and cried out. A new era had begun, and Jan wouldn't have had enough energy anymore. Kilián would show that we were right—show people the true path. Can we pause this?"

Interviewer: "Of course, take as much time as you need. I'll prepare the next tape."

Tape 2

Interviewer: "How are you feeling today?"

Matthew: "It's hard. Remembering like this... these aren't pleasant moments."

Interviewer: "Last time we ended at the start of the new era for the Abelites. Is that right?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you continue with what happened next?"

Matthew: "Then a heavy trial awaited us. It was demanding. The Angel watched us, but it was probably trivial to him. That's how I see it now, too."

Interviewer: "What kind of trial?"

Matthew: "Some questioned the succession. They didn't believe Kilián was ready. It was their test of faith. They had their own..." (Spits) "...false prophet. They took the wrong path."

Interviewer: "Did they leave the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. He wouldn't allow that."

Interviewer: "Who wouldn't allow it?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He had the Angel on his side. He took him into his protection. Ciara brought Jan's word. There was no room for doubters."

Interviewer: "Was the Angel kept in the compound?"

Matthew: "Where else would he find a place to rest his head? Kilián was a prophet; God spoke to him. Him and the Angel—it was obvious."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenters—the, uh, stray sheep?"

Matthew: "They caused trouble. Stoking fires, provoking people. In their ranks was Jan's favorite—that Gabe, the one who was supposed to be the chosen one. They were delusional."

Interviewer: "How did Kilián Tars handle it?"

Matthew: "With the Word."

Interviewer: "What kind of Word?"

Matthew: "He chose his faithful. Ciara remembered me and pointed me out to Kilián. He chose me above the others. We became his elite. I was elevated to a level I wouldn't have dared hope for. We were his staff; he was our shepherd."

Interviewer: "Something like an elite guard?"

Matthew: "Ah, yes, you could say that. Kilián conversed with God, who revealed to him how faithful we were. He chose us as his elite. It was an honor."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenting members?"

Matthew: "I know what you're driving at. But sometimes a little tough love is necessary. Sometimes you have to use the rod so the flock doesn't lose its way."

Interviewer: "You were that rod?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was our job. We did it well. I did it well—conscientiously and quickly."

Interviewer: "How did it go down?"

Matthew: "We came for the false prophet. We were supposed to bring him to Kilián. Despite his youth, Kilián was willing to save even such beings, to bring them back to the right path."

Interviewer: "Were there other beings?"

Matthew: "No. Only those who were misled."

Interviewer: "So what did you do?"

Matthew: "We brought him in."

Interviewer: "They just listened to you?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't listen. They were foolish. I told you we were the rod. It was necessary."

Interviewer: "So you neutralized them?"

Matthew: "Yes. It was a flawless strike." (Visibly smiles) "They didn't want to hand him over. But I didn't let myself be swayed. He gave us a symbol—the golden baton. That was our rod. That was our work. It was executed well."

Interviewer: "How did it end?"

Matthew: "We delivered Gabe straight to Kilián. He rewarded us with a day off and good food."

Interviewer: "What about the ones Kilián didn't want to see?"

Matthew: "Some understood quickly. Others walked on crutches." (Laughs) "They were stubborn, but that didn't intimidate us. Our strikes were precise and swift."

Interviewer: "Did anyone die?"

Matthew: "No. We were fulfilling a mission from on high. Only two remained in... what do you call it? A coma."

Interviewer: "What about the leader of the dissenters, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He didn't get it. Kilián sighed with sorrow. He came out soaked in sweat. He spoke to him; they even spoke with the Angel. He didn't understand. He was lost."

Interviewer: "Did you see them talking to the Angel?"

Matthew: "No, that wasn't my place. I had moved up high, but not to the very top among the most faithful." (Laughs)

Interviewer: "So what happened to the false successor, Jan Tars' friend, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He ended up on the pillory. He was exposed and chained there. After two days, the Devil took hold of him."

Interviewer: "Why do you think the Devil took hold of him?"

Matthew: "Because after a few nights, he started muttering. He went mad, begging and cursing. He paid no mind to who spoke to him. He didn't recognize Ciara. Two nights later, the Devil took him."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, took him?"

Matthew: "When I came on duty, I found him covered in blood. He was lifeless. Poor guy didn't understand he had strayed from the path."

Interviewer: "Did people attack him?"

Matthew: "No! How dare you. The others were following the true path. Unlike that lunatic. They wouldn't even dirty their boots on a stray like him."

Interviewer: "What about his followers? Didn't they want revenge?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't have time. They were sent to quarry stone for the roads. Kilián had a vision that many new members would come—people who would understand the truth. He gave them a chance to redeem themselves. He was good. Unfortunately, he had his quirks."

Interviewer: "What kind of quirks did you notice in him?"

Matthew: "He lived life to the fullest. It's not easy being that close to the light. He bought sports cars, motorcycles, and invited new members over to consult with him. He searched for them himself."

Interviewer: "Why did he need sports vehicles?"

Matthew: "He needed to be fast if he wanted to visit as many communities as possible."

Interviewer: "Why didn't the new members talk to you or other members?"

Matthew: "He carried a golden heart. He decided to seek out the Mary Magdalenes of this world. He invited them to his quarters, preached to them, and tried to cast out their addictions. They often screamed, but he never gave up."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "No. Some of the fallen women visited him repeatedly; they had many demons inside them. But he was persistent. Often he was so exhausted afterwards that some of us from the guard brought him the blood of God so he could recover."

Interviewer: "By 'blood of God,' do you mean communion wine?"

Matthew: "Yes, the red blood. He had a large cellar built, which he filled with bottles straight from Italy and France—the ones in Europe."

Interviewer: "Did he ever reward you like that?"

Matthew: "No, unfortunately. I often received his word only through Ciara. He was sometimes so exhausted he couldn't even walk. So Ciara would pass on the word or calm the others down."

Interviewer: "Were there any other dissenters?"

Matthew: "No, I didn't allow it. Besides, everyone saw. They knew what awaited them. You see, the body of a false prophet couldn't rest in our sacred soil, where the Angel, Jan, and Kilián had walked."

Interviewer: "What did you do?"

Matthew: "He ended up by the side of the road. Like roadkill. He didn't deserve anything more."

Interviewer: "Do you think the man in this photograph is your false prophet?"

(Takes the photograph and stares at it for a long time)

Matthew: "Yes, that's the fool."

(The interviewee confirmed that the heavily decomposed body marked as John Doe from date XXX is indeed their member, Gabe XXXX.)

Interviewer: "How are you feeling?"

Matthew: "Good. It's fine. I need to get this out of me."

Interviewer: "Excellent. Do you know what happened to Kilián Tars?"

Matthew: "God took him. He probably couldn't bear to watch him struggle and exhaust himself anymore."

Interviewer: "Do you know what happened to him?"

Matthew: "This. Do we have to talk about this? Is it necessary?"

Interviewer: "Did you find him?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you elaborate?"

Matthew: "He was... It was..." (Sighs) "...I couldn't even recognize him. His face was mangled. His body... he was like a ragdoll. Why... why did this have to happen?" (Breaks down into tears)

Interviewer: "Did Kilián Tars die by accident, then?"

Matthew: "NO! No. He took him. Why... why like this? He was in a rush. He was tired and in a rush. His goodness... why?" (Sobs loudly, muttering uncontrollably)

Interviewer: "What exactly do you mean? How did you find him?"

Matthew: "Kilián was rushing back on his motorcycle. He was in town spreading His word..." (Sobs) "...turning the lost back to his path... to his... it's so hard. He must have skidded. His bike flew into a tree. The ground was turned up..." (Visibly struggling) "...He lay by that tree. There was blood everywhere. It was terrible. I sent for Ciara." (Sobs)

"Do I have to finish this? He died. Right by that tree, probably on impact. By the time we carried him back, crowds had gathered. Everyone wanted to see him. They were weeping. We carried him into the chapel—where the light is strongest. No. I can't. No further. Stop."

"We will return to further recordings very soon—to what really happened at Adema Ranch."

by Hary Sykora

Adema Ranch, Tennessee.

Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the notorious group known as the Abelites.

What really happened behind the walls of this "town"? Let’s take a look. We managed to obtain a unique testimony from a surviving member of the Abelites. This group was founded in the late seventies by a self-proclaimed prophet, Jan Tars. This man built a strong core community. After the controversies surrounding Jonestown and other cults—ahem, groups—he withdrew into isolation. He was known for his fiery sermons. What set him apart from the rest? It was his obsession with acquiring ancient religious texts.

During the murderous rampage of the Son of Sam and the subsequent fear gripping the streets of New York, Jan Tars appealed in his sermons for vigilance and warned against the Necronomicon. These media appearances and his radio presence led directly to the community closing its doors further, shifting their lifestyle deep into anonymity. We, however, bring you an exclusive transcript of an interview with a survivor. His condition was to remain anonymous; therefore, he will be referred to as Matthew.

Tape 1

Eyewitness: Matthew

Matthew: "That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up...

'You're not leaving just like that!' screamed Ciara. She was beside herself with rage, looking like a pit bull with its jaws locked. The sky darkened in an instant, as if an eclipse had struck. Thunder was loud at first, but it kept rolling faster and faster, sounding like artillery fire. Lightning struck all around us, snapping trees like toothpicks. The roofs of our houses splintered beneath them. Something was coming. I knew it, we all knew it. It's an instinct—deep down inside you. You don't know it's there, but back then, we knew: a beast, a predator, was watching us."

Interviewer: "Please, can you start from the beginning? I know this must be difficult for you."

Matthew: "Which beginning do you want to know? Jan Tars was a good man. The fact that he didn't live to see the massacre... I'm glad he didn't have to witness it. Why do I have to be the one to pass on the message?" (Cries)

Interviewer: "Take your time. It's alright."

Matthew: "No, I have to pass it on. They must know."

Interviewer: "Let's start shortly before the death of your leader."

Matthew: "He would have never wanted that. Jan Tars believed in what he said. He wasn't like the others. It hit him hard when the panic started."

Interviewer: "What panic do you mean?"

Matthew: "The Satanic Panic. Manson and the rest of them. It became a sensation. Interviews with a werewolf. A possessed dog urging people to commit murder. Berkowitz and his theatrical scenes. Manson drowning in his craving for popularity. Sinners ruining our image. He took it very hard. He was helping us!"

Interviewer: "Was he successful in that?"

Matthew: "He was. Mr. Tars warned us about the outside world. He guided us to build a self-sufficient community. Not everyone liked it, but he put those people in their place quickly. He didn't even have to exorcise them."

Interviewer: "So Mr. Tars always had occult inclinations?"

Matthew: "Spiritual, I would say. He studied the Scriptures. He searched for what our ancestors preserved for us. He sent us on expeditions. It was an honor to go out searching for sacred relics."

Interviewer: "Including the Necronomicon, written by Abdul Alhazred in the Nameless City?"

Matthew: "I wasn't in the inner circle. To get there, a person had to pass a test. I never made it that far. But yes, he searched for that text too."

Interviewer: "And did he find this infamous grimoire?"

Matthew: "You talk about things you don't understand. I'd advise you not to play with fire. One of the expeditions actually discovered a transcript of the Necronomicon. They brought it back about a month ago. A man had the transcript of the book—supposedly from excavations in Afghanistan, or maybe from some forgotten museum collection. Tars was thrilled. The whole event was celebrated. He was willing to give anything for that book. The man arrived and was immediately housed in the guest residence. Whatever he wanted, he got."

Interviewer: "Anything?"

Matthew: "Yes—women, alcohol, whatever food he desired. People were sent out for luxury goods, expensive wines. When he wanted young men, young men went to him. He was the devil's messenger."

Interviewer: "Tars didn't object to that?"

Matthew: "You don't understand. This was about lost knowledge. He had to do it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have endured it."

(Note: Jan Tars had previously been accused by young girls of, let's say, inappropriate behavior.)

Matthew: "You don't understand. That has nothing to do with what I need to tell you."

Interviewer: "How did the transaction end?"

Matthew: "It was fourteen days of debauchery. But the lost manuscript finally found its scholar. Not everyone saw it clearly, but it was right."

Interviewer: "Mr. Jan Tars died a few days later, is that correct?"

Matthew: "I get that you don't see it, but he fulfilled his mission. He read it, and even though it was a severe trial, he completed its mandate. Divine joy filled him."

Interviewer: "Do you mean some kind of ritual?"

Matthew: "Yes, it was necessary to perform a welcoming procedure, just as it was meant to be done. That morning, he arrived."

Interviewer: "Who arrived?"

Matthew: "A being of light. Suddenly, a silver glow appeared, and out of it walked a wise being with a serene face. He emerged from that energy. When he spread his wings, the air filled with the scent of myrrh. He revealed himself to everyone, not just the inner circle. Jan Tars did it—he brought an Angel among us."

Interviewer: "Why did Tars die afterwards, then?"

Matthew: "He had fulfilled his purpose. He was enjoying the fruits of his labor and conversing with the being. But then, during one of his sermons, God called him home."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, called him?"

Matthew: "It was heart failure. He was of advanced age. His era ended then and there."

Interviewer: "But the Angel didn't disappear?"

Matthew: "No, our guest remained with us. There was sorrow, and he watched us. At first, it was terrifying. It filled me with immense fear. He had no emotions—or if he did, he didn't show them. He just watched us. Around him, the world felt more vibrant. He was larger than regular men, almost like a basketball player. He was a great listener."

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel! Yes, after Jan Tars died, nobody knew what we were supposed to do. The Angel was our comfort. Ciara came out draped in black and announced a period of mourning. People were supposed to stay in their homes and pray for Jan for at least three hours."

Interviewer: "Was that normal?"

Matthew: "No, those were extra prayers. In our normal routine, prayer had its assigned one-hour slot. But this was an exceptional situation."

Interviewer: "What happened next? Was there any relief?"

Matthew: "I'll probably disappoint you, but it wasn't the kind of relief you're thinking of. Ciara stepped forward again, still in mourning clothes. Some women wept and wailed. But then she said what we were afraid to even imagine. He was chosen and called. The Angel didn't bring back Jan, our shepherd, but chose Kilián Tars instead."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "At first, yes. Then I understood and cried out. A new era had begun, and Jan wouldn't have had enough energy anymore. Kilián would show that we were right—show people the true path. Can we pause this?"

Interviewer: "Of course, take as much time as you need. I'll prepare the next tape."

Tape 2

Interviewer: "How are you feeling today?"

Matthew: "It's hard. Remembering like this... these aren't pleasant moments."

Interviewer: "Last time we ended at the start of the new era for the Abelites. Is that right?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you continue with what happened next?"

Matthew: "Then a heavy trial awaited us. It was demanding. The Angel watched us, but it was probably trivial to him. That's how I see it now, too."

Interviewer: "What kind of trial?"

Matthew: "Some questioned the succession. They didn't believe Kilián was ready. It was their test of faith. They had their own..." (Spits) "...false prophet. They took the wrong path."

Interviewer: "Did they leave the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. He wouldn't allow that."

Interviewer: "Who wouldn't allow it?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He had the Angel on his side. He took him into his protection. Ciara brought Jan's word. There was no room for doubters."

Interviewer: "Was the Angel kept in the compound?"

Matthew: "Where else would he find a place to rest his head? Kilián was a prophet; God spoke to him. Him and the Angel—it was obvious."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenters—the, uh, stray sheep?"

Matthew: "They caused trouble. Stoking fires, provoking people. In their ranks was Jan's favorite—that Gabe, the one who was supposed to be the chosen one. They were delusional."

Interviewer: "How did Kilián Tars handle it?"

Matthew: "With the Word."

Interviewer: "What kind of Word?"

Matthew: "He chose his faithful. Ciara remembered me and pointed me out to Kilián. He chose me above the others. We became his elite. I was elevated to a level I wouldn't have dared hope for. We were his staff; he was our shepherd."

Interviewer: "Something like an elite guard?"

Matthew: "Ah, yes, you could say that. Kilián conversed with God, who revealed to him how faithful we were. He chose us as his elite. It was an honor."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenting members?"

Matthew: "I know what you're driving at. But sometimes a little tough love is necessary. Sometimes you have to use the rod so the flock doesn't lose its way."

Interviewer: "You were that rod?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was our job. We did it well. I did it well—conscientiously and quickly."

Interviewer: "How did it go down?"

Matthew: "We came for the false prophet. We were supposed to bring him to Kilián. Despite his youth, Kilián was willing to save even such beings, to bring them back to the right path."

Interviewer: "Were there other beings?"

Matthew: "No. Only those who were misled."

Interviewer: "So what did you do?"

Matthew: "We brought him in."

Interviewer: "They just listened to you?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't listen. They were foolish. I told you we were the rod. It was necessary."

Interviewer: "So you neutralized them?"

Matthew: "Yes. It was a flawless strike." (Visibly smiles) "They didn't want to hand him over. But I didn't let myself be swayed. He gave us a symbol—the golden baton. That was our rod. That was our work. It was executed well."

Interviewer: "How did it end?"

Matthew: "We delivered Gabe straight to Kilián. He rewarded us with a day off and good food."

Interviewer: "What about the ones Kilián didn't want to see?"

Matthew: "Some understood quickly. Others walked on crutches." (Laughs) "They were stubborn, but that didn't intimidate us. Our strikes were precise and swift."

Interviewer: "Did anyone die?"

Matthew: "No. We were fulfilling a mission from on high. Only two remained in... what do you call it? A coma."

Interviewer: "What about the leader of the dissenters, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He didn't get it. Kilián sighed with sorrow. He came out soaked in sweat. He spoke to him; they even spoke with the Angel. He didn't understand. He was lost."

Interviewer: "Did you see them talking to the Angel?"

Matthew: "No, that wasn't my place. I had moved up high, but not to the very top among the most faithful." (Laughs)

Interviewer: "So what happened to the false successor, Jan Tars' friend, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He ended up on the pillory. He was exposed and chained there. After two days, the Devil took hold of him."

Interviewer: "Why do you think the Devil took hold of him?"

Matthew: "Because after a few nights, he started muttering. He went mad, begging and cursing. He paid no mind to who spoke to him. He didn't recognize Ciara. Two nights later, the Devil took him."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, took him?"

Matthew: "When I came on duty, I found him covered in blood. He was lifeless. Poor guy didn't understand he had strayed from the path."

Interviewer: "Did people attack him?"

Matthew: "No! How dare you. The others were following the true path. Unlike that lunatic. They wouldn't even dirty their boots on a stray like him."

Interviewer: "What about his followers? Didn't they want revenge?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't have time. They were sent to quarry stone for the roads. Kilián had a vision that many new members would come—people who would understand the truth. He gave them a chance to redeem themselves. He was good. Unfortunately, he had his quirks."

Interviewer: "What kind of quirks did you notice in him?"

Matthew: "He lived life to the fullest. It's not easy being that close to the light. He bought sports cars, motorcycles, and invited new members over to consult with him. He searched for them himself."

Interviewer: "Why did he need sports vehicles?"

Matthew: "He needed to be fast if he wanted to visit as many communities as possible."

Interviewer: "Why didn't the new members talk to you or other members?"

Matthew: "He carried a golden heart. He decided to seek out the Mary Magdalenes of this world. He invited them to his quarters, preached to them, and tried to cast out their addictions. They often screamed, but he never gave up."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "No. Some of the fallen women visited him repeatedly; they had many demons inside them. But he was persistent. Often he was so exhausted afterwards that some of us from the guard brought him the blood of God so he could recover."

Interviewer: "By 'blood of God,' do you mean communion wine?"

Matthew: "Yes, the red blood. He had a large cellar built, which he filled with bottles straight from Italy and France—the ones in Europe."

Interviewer: "Did he ever reward you like that?"

Matthew: "No, unfortunately. I often received his word only through Ciara. He was sometimes so exhausted he couldn't even walk. So Ciara would pass on the word or calm the others down."

Interviewer: "Were there any other dissenters?"

Matthew: "No, I didn't allow it. Besides, everyone saw. They knew what awaited them. You see, the body of a false prophet couldn't rest in our sacred soil, where the Angel, Jan, and Kilián had walked."

Interviewer: "What did you do?"

Matthew: "He ended up by the side of the road. Like roadkill. He didn't deserve anything more."

Interviewer: "Do you think the man in this photograph is your false prophet?"

(Takes the photograph and stares at it for a long time)

Matthew: "Yes, that's the fool."

(The interviewee confirmed that the heavily decomposed body marked as John Doe from date XXX is indeed their member, Gabe XXXX.)

Interviewer: "How are you feeling?"

Matthew: "Good. It's fine. I need to get this out of me."

Interviewer: "Excellent. Do you know what happened to Kilián Tars?"

Matthew: "God took him. He probably couldn't bear to watch him struggle and exhaust himself anymore."

Interviewer: "Do you know what happened to him?"

Matthew: "This. Do we have to talk about this? Is it necessary?"

Interviewer: "Did you find him?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you elaborate?"

Matthew: "He was... It was..." (Sighs) "...I couldn't even recognize him. His face was mangled. His body... he was like a ragdoll. Why... why did this have to happen?" (Breaks down into tears)

Interviewer: "Did Kilián Tars die by accident, then?"

Matthew: "NO! No. He took him. Why... why like this? He was in a rush. He was tired and in a rush. His goodness... why?" (Sobs loudly, muttering uncontrollably)

Interviewer: "What exactly do you mean? How did you find him?"

Matthew: "Kilián was rushing back on his motorcycle. He was in town spreading His word..." (Sobs) "...turning the lost back to his path... to his... it's so hard. He must have skidded. His bike flew into a tree. The ground was turned up..." (Visibly struggling) "...He lay by that tree. There was blood everywhere. It was terrible. I sent for Ciara." (Sobs)

"Do I have to finish this? He died. Right by that tree, probably on impact. By the time we carried him back, crowds had gathered. Everyone wanted to see him. They were weeping. We carried him into the chapel—where the light is strongest. No. I can't. No further. Stop."

"We will return to further recordings very soon—to what really happened at Adema Ranch."

by Hary Sykora

Adema Ranch, Tennessee.

Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the notorious group known as the Abelites.

What really happened behind the walls of this "town"? Let’s take a look. We managed to obtain a unique testimony from a surviving member of the Abelites. This group was founded in the late seventies by a self-proclaimed prophet, Jan Tars. This man built a strong core community. After the controversies surrounding Jonestown and other cults—ahem, groups—he withdrew into isolation. He was known for his fiery sermons. What set him apart from the rest? It was his obsession with acquiring ancient religious texts.

During the murderous rampage of the Son of Sam and the subsequent fear gripping the streets of New York, Jan Tars appealed in his sermons for vigilance and warned against the Necronomicon. These media appearances and his radio presence led directly to the community closing its doors further, shifting their lifestyle deep into anonymity. We, however, bring you an exclusive transcript of an interview with a survivor. His condition was to remain anonymous; therefore, he will be referred to as Matthew.

Tape 1

Eyewitness: Matthew

Matthew: "That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up...

'You're not leaving just like that!' screamed Ciara. She was beside herself with rage, looking like a pit bull with its jaws locked. The sky darkened in an instant, as if an eclipse had struck. Thunder was loud at first, but it kept rolling faster and faster, sounding like artillery fire. Lightning struck all around us, snapping trees like toothpicks. The roofs of our houses splintered beneath them. Something was coming. I knew it, we all knew it. It's an instinct—deep down inside you. You don't know it's there, but back then, we knew: a beast, a predator, was watching us."

Interviewer: "Please, can you start from the beginning? I know this must be difficult for you."

Matthew: "Which beginning do you want to know? Jan Tars was a good man. The fact that he didn't live to see the massacre... I'm glad he didn't have to witness it. Why do I have to be the one to pass on the message?" (Cries)

Interviewer: "Take your time. It's alright."

Matthew: "No, I have to pass it on. They must know."

Interviewer: "Let's start shortly before the death of your leader."

Matthew: "He would have never wanted that. Jan Tars believed in what he said. He wasn't like the others. It hit him hard when the panic started."

Interviewer: "What panic do you mean?"

Matthew: "The Satanic Panic. Manson and the rest of them. It became a sensation. Interviews with a werewolf. A possessed dog urging people to commit murder. Berkowitz and his theatrical scenes. Manson drowning in his craving for popularity. Sinners ruining our image. He took it very hard. He was helping us!"

Interviewer: "Was he successful in that?"

Matthew: "He was. Mr. Tars warned us about the outside world. He guided us to build a self-sufficient community. Not everyone liked it, but he put those people in their place quickly. He didn't even have to exorcise them."

Interviewer: "So Mr. Tars always had occult inclinations?"

Matthew: "Spiritual, I would say. He studied the Scriptures. He searched for what our ancestors preserved for us. He sent us on expeditions. It was an honor to go out searching for sacred relics."

Interviewer: "Including the Necronomicon, written by Abdul Alhazred in the Nameless City?"

Matthew: "I wasn't in the inner circle. To get there, a person had to pass a test. I never made it that far. But yes, he searched for that text too."

Interviewer: "And did he find this infamous grimoire?"

Matthew: "You talk about things you don't understand. I'd advise you not to play with fire. One of the expeditions actually discovered a transcript of the Necronomicon. They brought it back about a month ago. A man had the transcript of the book—supposedly from excavations in Afghanistan, or maybe from some forgotten museum collection. Tars was thrilled. The whole event was celebrated. He was willing to give anything for that book. The man arrived and was immediately housed in the guest residence. Whatever he wanted, he got."

Interviewer: "Anything?"

Matthew: "Yes—women, alcohol, whatever food he desired. People were sent out for luxury goods, expensive wines. When he wanted young men, young men went to him. He was the devil's messenger."

Interviewer: "Tars didn't object to that?"

Matthew: "You don't understand. This was about lost knowledge. He had to do it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have done it. He couldn't have endured it."

(Note: Jan Tars had previously been accused by young girls of, let's say, inappropriate behavior.)

Matthew: "You don't understand. That has nothing to do with what I need to tell you."

Interviewer: "How did the transaction end?"

Matthew: "It was fourteen days of debauchery. But the lost manuscript finally found its scholar. Not everyone saw it clearly, but it was right."

Interviewer: "Mr. Jan Tars died a few days later, is that correct?"

Matthew: "I get that you don't see it, but he fulfilled his mission. He read it, and even though it was a severe trial, he completed its mandate. Divine joy filled him."

Interviewer: "Do you mean some kind of ritual?"

Matthew: "Yes, it was necessary to perform a welcoming procedure, just as it was meant to be done. That morning, he arrived."

Interviewer: "Who arrived?"

Matthew: "A being of light. Suddenly, a silver glow appeared, and out of it walked a wise being with a serene face. He emerged from that energy. When he spread his wings, the air filled with the scent of myrrh. He revealed himself to everyone, not just the inner circle. Jan Tars did it—he brought an Angel among us."

Interviewer: "Why did Tars die afterwards, then?"

Matthew: "He had fulfilled his purpose. He was enjoying the fruits of his labor and conversing with the being. But then, during one of his sermons, God called him home."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, called him?"

Matthew: "It was heart failure. He was of advanced age. His era ended then and there."

Interviewer: "But the Angel didn't disappear?"

Matthew: "No, our guest remained with us. There was sorrow, and he watched us. At first, it was terrifying. It filled me with immense fear. He had no emotions—or if he did, he didn't show them. He just watched us. Around him, the world felt more vibrant. He was larger than regular men, almost like a basketball player. He was a great listener."

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel! Yes, after Jan Tars died, nobody knew what we were supposed to do. The Angel was our comfort. Ciara came out draped in black and announced a period of mourning. People were supposed to stay in their homes and pray for Jan for at least three hours."

Interviewer: "Was that normal?"

Matthew: "No, those were extra prayers. In our normal routine, prayer had its assigned one-hour slot. But this was an exceptional situation."

Interviewer: "What happened next? Was there any relief?"

Matthew: "I'll probably disappoint you, but it wasn't the kind of relief you're thinking of. Ciara stepped forward again, still in mourning clothes. Some women wept and wailed. But then she said what we were afraid to even imagine. He was chosen and called. The Angel didn't bring back Jan, our shepherd, but chose Kilián Tars instead."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "At first, yes. Then I understood and cried out. A new era had begun, and Jan wouldn't have had enough energy anymore. Kilián would show that we were right—show people the true path. Can we pause this?"

Interviewer: "Of course, take as much time as you need. I'll prepare the next tape."

Tape 2

Interviewer: "How are you feeling today?"

Matthew: "It's hard. Remembering like this... these aren't pleasant moments."

Interviewer: "Last time we ended at the start of the new era for the Abelites. Is that right?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you continue with what happened next?"

Matthew: "Then a heavy trial awaited us. It was demanding. The Angel watched us, but it was probably trivial to him. That's how I see it now, too."

Interviewer: "What kind of trial?"

Matthew: "Some questioned the succession. They didn't believe Kilián was ready. It was their test of faith. They had their own..." (Spits) "...false prophet. They took the wrong path."

Interviewer: "Did they leave the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. He wouldn't allow that."

Interviewer: "Who wouldn't allow it?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He had the Angel on his side. He took him into his protection. Ciara brought Jan's word. There was no room for doubters."

Interviewer: "Was the Angel kept in the compound?"

Matthew: "Where else would he find a place to rest his head? Kilián was a prophet; God spoke to him. Him and the Angel—it was obvious."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenters—the, uh, stray sheep?"

Matthew: "They caused trouble. Stoking fires, provoking people. In their ranks was Jan's favorite—that Gabe, the one who was supposed to be the chosen one. They were delusional."

Interviewer: "How did Kilián Tars handle it?"

Matthew: "With the Word."

Interviewer: "What kind of Word?"

Matthew: "He chose his faithful. Ciara remembered me and pointed me out to Kilián. He chose me above the others. We became his elite. I was elevated to a level I wouldn't have dared hope for. We were his staff; he was our shepherd."

Interviewer: "Something like an elite guard?"

Matthew: "Ah, yes, you could say that. Kilián conversed with God, who revealed to him how faithful we were. He chose us as his elite. It was an honor."

Interviewer: "What about the dissenting members?"

Matthew: "I know what you're driving at. But sometimes a little tough love is necessary. Sometimes you have to use the rod so the flock doesn't lose its way."

Interviewer: "You were that rod?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was our job. We did it well. I did it well—conscientiously and quickly."

Interviewer: "How did it go down?"

Matthew: "We came for the false prophet. We were supposed to bring him to Kilián. Despite his youth, Kilián was willing to save even such beings, to bring them back to the right path."

Interviewer: "Were there other beings?"

Matthew: "No. Only those who were misled."

Interviewer: "So what did you do?"

Matthew: "We brought him in."

Interviewer: "They just listened to you?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't listen. They were foolish. I told you we were the rod. It was necessary."

Interviewer: "So you neutralized them?"

Matthew: "Yes. It was a flawless strike." (Visibly smiles) "They didn't want to hand him over. But I didn't let myself be swayed. He gave us a symbol—the golden baton. That was our rod. That was our work. It was executed well."

Interviewer: "How did it end?"

Matthew: "We delivered Gabe straight to Kilián. He rewarded us with a day off and good food."

Interviewer: "What about the ones Kilián didn't want to see?"

Matthew: "Some understood quickly. Others walked on crutches." (Laughs) "They were stubborn, but that didn't intimidate us. Our strikes were precise and swift."

Interviewer: "Did anyone die?"

Matthew: "No. We were fulfilling a mission from on high. Only two remained in... what do you call it? A coma."

Interviewer: "What about the leader of the dissenters, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He didn't get it. Kilián sighed with sorrow. He came out soaked in sweat. He spoke to him; they even spoke with the Angel. He didn't understand. He was lost."

Interviewer: "Did you see them talking to the Angel?"

Matthew: "No, that wasn't my place. I had moved up high, but not to the very top among the most faithful." (Laughs)

Interviewer: "So what happened to the false successor, Jan Tars' friend, Gabe?"

Matthew: "He ended up on the pillory. He was exposed and chained there. After two days, the Devil took hold of him."

Interviewer: "Why do you think the Devil took hold of him?"

Matthew: "Because after a few nights, he started muttering. He went mad, begging and cursing. He paid no mind to who spoke to him. He didn't recognize Ciara. Two nights later, the Devil took him."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, took him?"

Matthew: "When I came on duty, I found him covered in blood. He was lifeless. Poor guy didn't understand he had strayed from the path."

Interviewer: "Did people attack him?"

Matthew: "No! How dare you. The others were following the true path. Unlike that lunatic. They wouldn't even dirty their boots on a stray like him."

Interviewer: "What about his followers? Didn't they want revenge?"

Matthew: "No. They didn't have time. They were sent to quarry stone for the roads. Kilián had a vision that many new members would come—people who would understand the truth. He gave them a chance to redeem themselves. He was good. Unfortunately, he had his quirks."

Interviewer: "What kind of quirks did you notice in him?"

Matthew: "He lived life to the fullest. It's not easy being that close to the light. He bought sports cars, motorcycles, and invited new members over to consult with him. He searched for them himself."

Interviewer: "Why did he need sports vehicles?"

Matthew: "He needed to be fast if he wanted to visit as many communities as possible."

Interviewer: "Why didn't the new members talk to you or other members?"

Matthew: "He carried a golden heart. He decided to seek out the Mary Magdalenes of this world. He invited them to his quarters, preached to them, and tried to cast out their addictions. They often screamed, but he never gave up."

Interviewer: "Didn't you find that strange?"

Matthew: "No. Some of the fallen women visited him repeatedly; they had many demons inside them. But he was persistent. Often he was so exhausted afterwards that some of us from the guard brought him the blood of God so he could recover."

Interviewer: "By 'blood of God,' do you mean communion wine?"

Matthew: "Yes, the red blood. He had a large cellar built, which he filled with bottles straight from Italy and France—the ones in Europe."

Interviewer: "Did he ever reward you like that?"

Matthew: "No, unfortunately. I often received his word only through Ciara. He was sometimes so exhausted he couldn't even walk. So Ciara would pass on the word or calm the others down."

Interviewer: "Were there any other dissenters?"

Matthew: "No, I didn't allow it. Besides, everyone saw. They knew what awaited them. You see, the body of a false prophet couldn't rest in our sacred soil, where the Angel, Jan, and Kilián had walked."

Interviewer: "What did you do?"

Matthew: "He ended up by the side of the road. Like roadkill. He didn't deserve anything more."

Interviewer: "Do you think the man in this photograph is your false prophet?"

(Takes the photograph and stares at it for a long time)

Matthew: "Yes, that's the fool."

(The interviewee confirmed that the heavily decomposed body marked as John Doe from date XXX is indeed their member, Gabe XXXX.)

Interviewer: "How are you feeling?"

Matthew: "Good. It's fine. I need to get this out of me."

Interviewer: "Excellent. Do you know what happened to Kilián Tars?"

Matthew: "God took him. He probably couldn't bear to watch him struggle and exhaust himself anymore."

Interviewer: "Do you know what happened to him?"

Matthew: "This. Do we have to talk about this? Is it necessary?"

Interviewer: "Did you find him?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Can you elaborate?"

Matthew: "He was... It was..." (Sighs) "...I couldn't even recognize him. His face was mangled. His body... he was like a ragdoll. Why... why did this have to happen?" (Breaks down into tears)

Interviewer: "Did Kilián Tars die by accident, then?"

Matthew: "NO! No. He took him. Why... why like this? He was in a rush. He was tired and in a rush. His goodness... why?" (Sobs loudly, muttering uncontrollably)

Interviewer: "What exactly do you mean? How did you find him?"

Matthew: "Kilián was rushing back on his motorcycle. He was in town spreading His word..." (Sobs) "...turning the lost back to his path... to his... it's so hard. He must have skidded. His bike flew into a tree. The ground was turned up..." (Visibly struggling) "...He lay by that tree. There was blood everywhere. It was terrible. I sent for Ciara." (Sobs)

"Do I have to finish this? He died. Right by that tree, probably on impact. By the time we carried him back, crowds had gathered. Everyone wanted to see him. They were weeping. We carried him into the chapel—where the light is strongest. No. I can't. No further. Stop."

"We will return to further recordings very soon—to what really happened at Adema Ranch."

by Hary Sykora

On XXXXXXX a missing persons report came in. Two girls: Clair Tons and Emily Hart, university students from Canada. They’d set out on a road trip. Started in Winnipeg, planned to drive through North Dakota toward Yellowstone National Park. They wanted to see North Dakota, Montana, and Wyoming. Last seen near the town of Balta. The investigation confirmed they passed through a local gas station.

A tape from the station’s security camera was secured—barely. The camera points toward the pumps, and in the corner you can partially see the entrance. The footage is so awful that when it’s not covered in static, white stripes crawl across it. The owner kept asking when the tape would be returned. It’s the only tape he has for the camera, and he just rewinds it over and over. The fact that the girls’ recording survived is a miracle.

You can see one of them—Emily Hart, 22—getting into the car. She suddenly turns her head toward a white vehicle. The other girl isn’t visible. Both left the station in their gray sedan. The only other thing we could confirm is that they made it as far as our town. The tape also shows a white 1966 Dodge Coronet with no license plates.

The owner insisted he needed the tape back. So did I. His urgency felt wrong. Why did she turn? Who was she looking at? And why the hell does someone in 2007 have one VHS tape for security footage—with no audio? It felt like the universe was conspiring against me.

Missing:\\\*   Clair Tons, 23\\\*   Emily Hart, 22

Students at XXXXXXX University, Winnipeg. No criminal record, no drug or alcohol issues. Their families provided a photo from the start of their trip.

Two clean souls from Canada vanish in our plains. What were they even looking for out here? Did they find it—or did it find them?

Time to check out that car. Because right now, I’ve got nothing else to hold onto.

Everyone within fifty kilometers knows that Dodge. It belongs to the Olson family—or clan, which is probably more accurate. They’re… strange. Private. With relatives and sympathizers, they’ve practically built their own little town. A few houses forming a kind of street. Big silos, warehouses. From a distance, it looks like a fortress in the middle of endless corn. Honestly, it reminds me of the kind of place a cult would build. But they’re old settlers. Probably here longer than our town.

Their Dodge is always parked by the road. That’s the problem—everyone uses it. So the only person who can tell me anything is their leader: Urg Olson. Easy to describe—the kind of man you don’t want to meet at night. Quiet, two meters tall, a hundred kilos, long hair, a full beard, and eyes like a wolf.

Now I just had to get information out of him.

The Olson settlement is an isolated community. Scandinavian roots. Non‑aggressive but extremely closed off. They don’t cooperate with local police. Their main—and usually only—voice is Urg.

When I stopped in front of the settlement, time froze. Everyone who saw me stopped what they were doing. Great. Another miserable day. I stepped out, checked my badge, and walked toward the houses. Before I even passed the first one, he already knew I was there.

Urg Olson stood there, wrapped in some kind of cloak, staring down at me. Strange—he normally doesn’t wear anything like that.

“Detective.”One word. A start. Now to get a whole sentence out of him.

He gestured for me to follow and started walking. A little stroll, why not. Kids stared at us like we were zoo animals. Their parents looked away. The air felt thick.

“I need to know who was at the gas station with the Dodge Coronet.”

He nodded slowly, thinking—which was already getting on my nerves.

“That car belongs to the community.”

What else did I expect?

“Who took it to the station? I don’t need to remind you it has no plates.”

He stopped, as if deciding whether to throw me out or break me in half. And you’d believe he could.

“The paths of travelers are unpredictable.”

I showed him the photo of the girls smiling, taking a selfie.

“No one saw them? No one invited them in?”

Urg scratched his beard.

“What a pointless loss. Nature gives, and nature takes.”

I nodded, defeated. I had no idea what he meant. Getting anything out of him was beyond me.

“No one from your people saw them either, I assume?”

He looked at me the way a parent looks at a child who just said something stupid. Silent. Watching. The silence stretched until I couldn’t take it. I looked away. His eyes made my instincts scream—like he could leap at me any second. It didn’t match his calm demeanor. Something was wrong on a primal level.

Looking away led me to something interesting—a structure. A tornado shelter. A small brick entrance into the ground, one door half open. Stairs leading down, candlelight flickering. I saw strings, maybe little figures made of twigs. Or one hell of a big spider. In the back, a wooden statue.

Urg moved his hand and one of the clan members rushed over, slamming the door shut so hard it echoed. Then he stood guard in front of it. It looked deep. Where did it lead?

Urg’s stare burned into my back.

“Nothing that would interest you, Carter.”

He gestured toward my car and walked away. He was used to respect—and to people following him, in every sense of the word.

“If anyone remembers anything, you can call.”

He stood there like divine wrath. Behind him, strong men—probably his brothers. I’d never seen them inside the settlement. They guard their privacy fiercely.

“Sure,” I said. His last word sounded polite, but I didn’t feel that from him at all. Even as I drove away, I felt his eyes burning into me.

So I grabbed another coffee and dove into the archives and local legends.

“The Corn Monster”—a mythos every corn town has. Desperate men cling to straws.

Possible connected disappearances:

\\\*   1967—A man from Bowman, name unknown. Bet he could walk into the corn and prove nothing supernatural was there. Never seen again. Reportedly drunk, stumbling, slurring.

\\\*   1987—A young woman. Her body found during harvest, heavily decomposed. Jane Doe.

\\\*   2007—Clair Tons and Emily Hart—current case.

Only connection: all happened near massive cornfields.

"Geez, this whole fucking deal just doesn't make a lick of sense."How do you vanish on a straight road without a trace? Hardly anyone drives through there—someone should’ve seen them. I’ve driven that route ten times. There’s nothing there. No turnoffs. No scenic spots. Just endless corn.

Locals talk about the old legends—something happening in the fields. A bad season, strange things. After every bad season, someone revives the story.

A new clue came in from truck driver Jack Smith. A photo found at the gas station parking lot. The girls in a cornfield. Based on their clothes, it’s them. Burlap sacks over their heads. Tied to what looks like a cross.

I was driving through the fields again when they called. Someone dropped the photo—or placed it. It’s awful. The girls tied up, filthy, strapped to a cross, covered in what looks like blood and mud. Only the camera flash lights them. Corn everywhere. Always corn. I feel like I’m always driving through corn. Wading through corn. Sinking in mud. Looking worse every day.

Back to the case. Could be a ritual. A cult? One case is too little. A fanatic? Worse—no ties, impossible to track. Another coffee. Focus. And those wolf eyes watching me again. I hoped I wouldn’t have to go back to that settlement anytime soon.

Worst case—a serial killer. But no similar cases nearby. I checked for hours. A rage killing? No—he wouldn’t build crosses.

I have nothing. One useless tape. Two photos squeezed dry. Nothing to hold onto.

Maybe talk to Urg again. The thought made me shiver. Our conversation was the longest he’d had with anyone outside his community in years.

Today I’ll drive the route from their settlement and then the straight road again. I can’t sleep. More coffee. More corn. How the hell did they disappear?

A potential witness contacted us. He has information but will only share it in person. He’s afraid for his safety. He set the meeting at 2 AM. At a cornfield.

Of course. Where else. Not a rest stop—a cornfield. Suspicious, but I have to go. I’m close. I know it. I’ll find those girls. There’s something bigger behind this. No one understands why it’s eating me alive. The chief suggested medical leave. Colleagues say I’m exhausted and irritable.

I have to figure it out. It gnaws at me. I noticed a pattern—twenty years between cases. Why twenty? Why is each one different? Why can’t I let it go?

This is personal now. I have to go. I have to move forward.The corn will tell me.

\*\*User: CarterPD17 uploaded a new post.\*\*

A single photograph. Carter stepping out of his car. Headlights blinding him. The photographer caught it so it looks like it was taken in absolute emptiness. After brightening and editing, corn stalks appear in the background—and the shadow of someone standing in front of the headlights. Carter is crouching, trying to see what’s happening. Metadata shows only the time: 2 AM. Same time as the meeting. All other metadata erased.

Detective John Carter was declared missing.

His notes were posted 14 days later—he used a delayed-posting program.

His vehicle was found overturned in a ditch, partly in a cornfield.

Police continue searching and ask the public for help.

Urg Olson stated that neither he nor anyone in the community saw Carter.

The case was later suspended due to lack of evidence.

The person who uploaded Carter’s photo remains unknown.

by Hary Sykora

On XXXXXXX a missing persons report came in. Two girls: Clair Tons and Emily Hart, university students from Canada. They’d set out on a road trip. Started in Winnipeg, planned to drive through North Dakota toward Yellowstone National Park. They wanted to see North Dakota, Montana, and Wyoming. Last seen near the town of Balta. The investigation confirmed they passed through a local gas station.

A tape from the station’s security camera was secured—barely. The camera points toward the pumps, and in the corner you can partially see the entrance. The footage is so awful that when it’s not covered in static, white stripes crawl across it. The owner kept asking when the tape would be returned. It’s the only tape he has for the camera, and he just rewinds it over and over. The fact that the girls’ recording survived is a miracle.

You can see one of them—Emily Hart, 22—getting into the car. She suddenly turns her head toward a white vehicle. The other girl isn’t visible. Both left the station in their gray sedan. The only other thing we could confirm is that they made it as far as our town. The tape also shows a white 1966 Dodge Coronet with no license plates.

The owner insisted he needed the tape back. So did I. His urgency felt wrong. Why did she turn? Who was she looking at? And why the hell does someone in 2007 have one VHS tape for security footage—with no audio? It felt like the universe was conspiring against me.

Missing:\*   Clair Tons, 23\*   Emily Hart, 22

Students at XXXXXXX University, Winnipeg. No criminal record, no drug or alcohol issues. Their families provided a photo from the start of their trip.

Two clean souls from Canada vanish in our plains. What were they even looking for out here? Did they find it—or did it find them?

Time to check out that car. Because right now, I’ve got nothing else to hold onto.

Everyone within fifty kilometers knows that Dodge. It belongs to the Olson family—or clan, which is probably more accurate. They’re… strange. Private. With relatives and sympathizers, they’ve practically built their own little town. A few houses forming a kind of street. Big silos, warehouses. From a distance, it looks like a fortress in the middle of endless corn. Honestly, it reminds me of the kind of place a cult would build. But they’re old settlers. Probably here longer than our town.

Their Dodge is always parked by the road. That’s the problem—everyone uses it. So the only person who can tell me anything is their leader: Urg Olson. Easy to describe—the kind of man you don’t want to meet at night. Quiet, two meters tall, a hundred kilos, long hair, a full beard, and eyes like a wolf.

Now I just had to get information out of him.

The Olson settlement is an isolated community. Scandinavian roots. Non‑aggressive but extremely closed off. They don’t cooperate with local police. Their main—and usually only—voice is Urg.

When I stopped in front of the settlement, time froze. Everyone who saw me stopped what they were doing. Great. Another miserable day. I stepped out, checked my badge, and walked toward the houses. Before I even passed the first one, he already knew I was there.

Urg Olson stood there, wrapped in some kind of cloak, staring down at me. Strange—he normally doesn’t wear anything like that.

“Detective.”One word. A start. Now to get a whole sentence out of him.

He gestured for me to follow and started walking. A little stroll, why not. Kids stared at us like we were zoo animals. Their parents looked away. The air felt thick.

“I need to know who was at the gas station with the Dodge Coronet.”

He nodded slowly, thinking—which was already getting on my nerves.

“That car belongs to the community.”

What else did I expect?

“Who took it to the station? I don’t need to remind you it has no plates.”

He stopped, as if deciding whether to throw me out or break me in half. And you’d believe he could.

“The paths of travelers are unpredictable.”

I showed him the photo of the girls smiling, taking a selfie.

“No one saw them? No one invited them in?”

Urg scratched his beard.

“What a pointless loss. Nature gives, and nature takes.”

I nodded, defeated. I had no idea what he meant. Getting anything out of him was beyond me.

“No one from your people saw them either, I assume?”

He looked at me the way a parent looks at a child who just said something stupid. Silent. Watching. The silence stretched until I couldn’t take it. I looked away. His eyes made my instincts scream—like he could leap at me any second. It didn’t match his calm demeanor. Something was wrong on a primal level.

Looking away led me to something interesting—a structure. A tornado shelter. A small brick entrance into the ground, one door half open. Stairs leading down, candlelight flickering. I saw strings, maybe little figures made of twigs. Or one hell of a big spider. In the back, a wooden statue.

Urg moved his hand and one of the clan members rushed over, slamming the door shut so hard it echoed. Then he stood guard in front of it. It looked deep. Where did it lead?

Urg’s stare burned into my back.

“Nothing that would interest you, Carter.”

He gestured toward my car and walked away. He was used to respect—and to people following him, in every sense of the word.

“If anyone remembers anything, you can call.”

He stood there like divine wrath. Behind him, strong men—probably his brothers. I’d never seen them inside the settlement. They guard their privacy fiercely.

“Sure,” I said. His last word sounded polite, but I didn’t feel that from him at all. Even as I drove away, I felt his eyes burning into me.

So I grabbed another coffee and dove into the archives and local legends.

“The Corn Monster”—a mythos every corn town has. Desperate men cling to straws.

Possible connected disappearances:

\*   1967—A man from Bowman, name unknown. Bet he could walk into the corn and prove nothing supernatural was there. Never seen again. Reportedly drunk, stumbling, slurring.

\*   1987—A young woman. Her body found during harvest, heavily decomposed. Jane Doe.

\*   2007—Clair Tons and Emily Hart—current case.

Only connection: all happened near massive cornfields.

"Geez, this whole fucking deal just doesn't make a lick of sense."How do you vanish on a straight road without a trace? Hardly anyone drives through there—someone should’ve seen them. I’ve driven that route ten times. There’s nothing there. No turnoffs. No scenic spots. Just endless corn.

Locals talk about the old legends—something happening in the fields. A bad season, strange things. After every bad season, someone revives the story.

A new clue came in from truck driver Jack Smith. A photo found at the gas station parking lot. The girls in a cornfield. Based on their clothes, it’s them. Burlap sacks over their heads. Tied to what looks like a cross.

I was driving through the fields again when they called. Someone dropped the photo—or placed it. It’s awful. The girls tied up, filthy, strapped to a cross, covered in what looks like blood and mud. Only the camera flash lights them. Corn everywhere. Always corn. I feel like I’m always driving through corn. Wading through corn. Sinking in mud. Looking worse every day.

Back to the case. Could be a ritual. A cult? One case is too little. A fanatic? Worse—no ties, impossible to track. Another coffee. Focus. And those wolf eyes watching me again. I hoped I wouldn’t have to go back to that settlement anytime soon.

Worst case—a serial killer. But no similar cases nearby. I checked for hours. A rage killing? No—he wouldn’t build crosses.

I have nothing. One useless tape. Two photos squeezed dry. Nothing to hold onto.

Maybe talk to Urg again. The thought made me shiver. Our conversation was the longest he’d had with anyone outside his community in years.

Today I’ll drive the route from their settlement and then the straight road again. I can’t sleep. More coffee. More corn. How the hell did they disappear?

A potential witness contacted us. He has information but will only share it in person. He’s afraid for his safety. He set the meeting at 2 AM. At a cornfield.

Of course. Where else. Not a rest stop—a cornfield. Suspicious, but I have to go. I’m close. I know it. I’ll find those girls. There’s something bigger behind this. No one understands why it’s eating me alive. The chief suggested medical leave. Colleagues say I’m exhausted and irritable.

I have to figure it out. It gnaws at me. I noticed a pattern—twenty years between cases. Why twenty? Why is each one different? Why can’t I let it go?

This is personal now. I have to go. I have to move forward.The corn will tell me.

**User: CarterPD17 uploaded a new post.**

A single photograph. Carter stepping out of his car. Headlights blinding him. The photographer caught it so it looks like it was taken in absolute emptiness. After brightening and editing, corn stalks appear in the background—and the shadow of someone standing in front of the headlights. Carter is crouching, trying to see what’s happening. Metadata shows only the time: 2 AM. Same time as the meeting. All other metadata erased.

Detective John Carter was declared missing.

His notes were posted 14 days later—he used a delayed-posting program.

His vehicle was found overturned in a ditch, partly in a cornfield.

Police continue searching and ask the public for help.

Urg Olson stated that neither he nor anyone in the community saw Carter.

The case was later suspended due to lack of evidence.

The person who uploaded Carter’s photo remains unknown.

by Hary Sykora

On XXXXXXX a missing persons report came in. Two girls: Clair Tons and Emily Hart, university students from Canada. They’d set out on a road trip. Started in Winnipeg, planned to drive through North Dakota toward Yellowstone National Park. They wanted to see North Dakota, Montana, and Wyoming. Last seen near the town of Balta. The investigation confirmed they passed through a local gas station.

A tape from the station’s security camera was secured—barely. The camera points toward the pumps, and in the corner you can partially see the entrance. The footage is so awful that when it’s not covered in static, white stripes crawl across it. The owner kept asking when the tape would be returned. It’s the only tape he has for the camera, and he just rewinds it over and over. The fact that the girls’ recording survived is a miracle.

You can see one of them—Emily Hart, 22—getting into the car. She suddenly turns her head toward a white vehicle. The other girl isn’t visible. Both left the station in their gray sedan. The only other thing we could confirm is that they made it as far as our town. The tape also shows a white 1966 Dodge Coronet with no license plates.

The owner insisted he needed the tape back. So did I. His urgency felt wrong. Why did she turn? Who was she looking at? And why the hell does someone in 2007 have one VHS tape for security footage—with no audio? It felt like the universe was conspiring against me.

Missing:*   Clair Tons, 23*   Emily Hart, 22

Students at XXXXXXX University, Winnipeg. No criminal record, no drug or alcohol issues. Their families provided a photo from the start of their trip.

Two clean souls from Canada vanish in our plains. What were they even looking for out here? Did they find it—or did it find them?

Time to check out that car. Because right now, I’ve got nothing else to hold onto.

Everyone within fifty kilometers knows that Dodge. It belongs to the Olson family—or clan, which is probably more accurate. They’re… strange. Private. With relatives and sympathizers, they’ve practically built their own little town. A few houses forming a kind of street. Big silos, warehouses. From a distance, it looks like a fortress in the middle of endless corn. Honestly, it reminds me of the kind of place a cult would build. But they’re old settlers. Probably here longer than our town.

Their Dodge is always parked by the road. That’s the problem—everyone uses it. So the only person who can tell me anything is their leader: Urg Olson. Easy to describe—the kind of man you don’t want to meet at night. Quiet, two meters tall, a hundred kilos, long hair, a full beard, and eyes like a wolf.

Now I just had to get information out of him.

The Olson settlement is an isolated community. Scandinavian roots. Non‑aggressive but extremely closed off. They don’t cooperate with local police. Their main—and usually only—voice is Urg.

When I stopped in front of the settlement, time froze. Everyone who saw me stopped what they were doing. Great. Another miserable day. I stepped out, checked my badge, and walked toward the houses. Before I even passed the first one, he already knew I was there.

Urg Olson stood there, wrapped in some kind of cloak, staring down at me. Strange—he normally doesn’t wear anything like that.

“Detective.”One word. A start. Now to get a whole sentence out of him.

He gestured for me to follow and started walking. A little stroll, why not. Kids stared at us like we were zoo animals. Their parents looked away. The air felt thick.

“I need to know who was at the gas station with the Dodge Coronet.”

He nodded slowly, thinking—which was already getting on my nerves.

“That car belongs to the community.”

What else did I expect?

“Who took it to the station? I don’t need to remind you it has no plates.”

He stopped, as if deciding whether to throw me out or break me in half. And you’d believe he could.

“The paths of travelers are unpredictable.”

I showed him the photo of the girls smiling, taking a selfie.

“No one saw them? No one invited them in?”

Urg scratched his beard.

“What a pointless loss. Nature gives, and nature takes.”

I nodded, defeated. I had no idea what he meant. Getting anything out of him was beyond me.

“No one from your people saw them either, I assume?”

He looked at me the way a parent looks at a child who just said something stupid. Silent. Watching. The silence stretched until I couldn’t take it. I looked away. His eyes made my instincts scream—like he could leap at me any second. It didn’t match his calm demeanor. Something was wrong on a primal level.

Looking away led me to something interesting—a structure. A tornado shelter. A small brick entrance into the ground, one door half open. Stairs leading down, candlelight flickering. I saw strings, maybe little figures made of twigs. Or one hell of a big spider. In the back, a wooden statue.

Urg moved his hand and one of the clan members rushed over, slamming the door shut so hard it echoed. Then he stood guard in front of it. It looked deep. Where did it lead?

Urg’s stare burned into my back.

“Nothing that would interest you, Carter.”

He gestured toward my car and walked away. He was used to respect—and to people following him, in every sense of the word.

“If anyone remembers anything, you can call.”

He stood there like divine wrath. Behind him, strong men—probably his brothers. I’d never seen them inside the settlement. They guard their privacy fiercely.

“Sure,” I said. His last word sounded polite, but I didn’t feel that from him at all. Even as I drove away, I felt his eyes burning into me.

So I grabbed another coffee and dove into the archives and local legends.

“The Corn Monster”—a mythos every corn town has. Desperate men cling to straws.

Possible connected disappearances:

*   1967—A man from Bowman, name unknown. Bet he could walk into the corn and prove nothing supernatural was there. Never seen again. Reportedly drunk, stumbling, slurring.

*   1987—A young woman. Her body found during harvest, heavily decomposed. Jane Doe.

*   2007—Clair Tons and Emily Hart—current case.

Only connection: all happened near massive cornfields.

"Geez, this whole fucking deal just doesn't make a lick of sense."How do you vanish on a straight road without a trace? Hardly anyone drives through there—someone should’ve seen them. I’ve driven that route ten times. There’s nothing there. No turnoffs. No scenic spots. Just endless corn.

Locals talk about the old legends—something happening in the fields. A bad season, strange things. After every bad season, someone revives the story.

A new clue came in from truck driver Jack Smith. A photo found at the gas station parking lot. The girls in a cornfield. Based on their clothes, it’s them. Burlap sacks over their heads. Tied to what looks like a cross.

I was driving through the fields again when they called. Someone dropped the photo—or placed it. It’s awful. The girls tied up, filthy, strapped to a cross, covered in what looks like blood and mud. Only the camera flash lights them. Corn everywhere. Always corn. I feel like I’m always driving through corn. Wading through corn. Sinking in mud. Looking worse every day.

Back to the case. Could be a ritual. A cult? One case is too little. A fanatic? Worse—no ties, impossible to track. Another coffee. Focus. And those wolf eyes watching me again. I hoped I wouldn’t have to go back to that settlement anytime soon.

Worst case—a serial killer. But no similar cases nearby. I checked for hours. A rage killing? No—he wouldn’t build crosses.

I have nothing. One useless tape. Two photos squeezed dry. Nothing to hold onto.

Maybe talk to Urg again. The thought made me shiver. Our conversation was the longest he’d had with anyone outside his community in years.

Today I’ll drive the route from their settlement and then the straight road again. I can’t sleep. More coffee. More corn. How the hell did they disappear?

A potential witness contacted us. He has information but will only share it in person. He’s afraid for his safety. He set the meeting at 2 AM. At a cornfield.

Of course. Where else. Not a rest stop—a cornfield. Suspicious, but I have to go. I’m close. I know it. I’ll find those girls. There’s something bigger behind this. No one understands why it’s eating me alive. The chief suggested medical leave. Colleagues say I’m exhausted and irritable.

I have to figure it out. It gnaws at me. I noticed a pattern—twenty years between cases. Why twenty? Why is each one different? Why can’t I let it go?

This is personal now. I have to go. I have to move forward.The corn will tell me.

User: CarterPD17 uploaded a new post.

A single photograph. Carter stepping out of his car. Headlights blinding him. The photographer caught it so it looks like it was taken in absolute emptiness. After brightening and editing, corn stalks appear in the background—and the shadow of someone standing in front of the headlights. Carter is crouching, trying to see what’s happening. Metadata shows only the time: 2 AM. Same time as the meeting. All other metadata erased.

Detective John Carter was declared missing.

His notes were posted 14 days later—he used a delayed-posting program.

His vehicle was found overturned in a ditch, partly in a cornfield.

Police continue searching and ask the public for help.

Urg Olson stated that neither he nor anyone in the community saw Carter.

The case was later suspended due to lack of evidence.

The person who uploaded Carter’s photo remains unknown.

by Hary Sykora

This happened on our street. We had a dare to walk across the garden of the Frakes Mansion. I still get goosebumps thinking about it. That old huge house looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Especially when it rained; we always walked around it in a wide arc.

The creepy old man who lived there almost never came outside. The boys bragged about the weird things they’d seen through his windows, or who managed to get all the way to his porch. Whenever someone delivered something to him, it was always in a wooden crate. Seriously, like in a cartoon. There were strange symbols on it, or foreign languages.

I nearly panicked when I saw him through the glass in the door. Hunched over, holding a crowbar, a tattoo of a mermaid on his arm. Then Mickey laughed at me. I was the runt. He and his buddy were so tough. Now when I think back and replay it, they were just suburban kids. I kept following them around and they kept brushing me off. Over and over.

One night the sirens woke me up. The creepy old man died. I pressed myself against the window. They were hauling his big body away in a bag. My first thought was that he’d definitely become some kind of ghost. Only a kid thinks of stuff like that.

It was autumn, I remember that. The street was orange and leaves were everywhere. A crowd of people stood in front of the Frakes Mansion. As kids, we had to be there too. Folding tables were bending under the weight of stuff from the house. Old candle holders, porcelain, uranium glass. Mickey recognized it — he called it Hulk glass. Radioactive stuff, wow. What kind of guy was that old man?

But there wasnt time to stare. Because Cylindr arrived. We didn’t call him anything else. A chubby old guy with sideburns. White shirt, striped vest. Bobby claimed he was the dead man’s brother. We knew nothing. Later I asked my parents — they had no idea who he could be. Bobby hated me, as far as I remember, and after what happened to Mickey, he never spoke to me again.

Cylindr had that wide, picture-perfect smile, except he had it all the time. He scared me. That was Mickey’s cue to start showing off. He rummaged through things and complained theatrically. Cylindr watched him without even turning his head. Then Mickey froze mid‑movement. Like a statue. I ran to him and heard Bobby’s mocking grunt.

There was a laptop. Brand new. A black, plain ThinkPad. Mickey was looking at it, searching for something. I had no idea what weird labels he was looking for. Bobby shoved me aside. They started arguing. Whispering excitedly, pushing each other.

I jumped when I noticed Cylindr watching us. Mickey smacked Bobby to calm him down, putting on a bored expression. I copied him immediately.

“How much for this piece of junk?”

Silence. I thought Mickey went too far. Cylindr turned to him.

“How much do you have?”

Bobby threatened him with a fist. “Hey, don’t mess with us.”

Silence. Neighbors around us were browsing the items, but he stood there with a bunch of kids who obviously had almost no money.

“How much do you have?” he asked again.

Mickey started digging through his pockets.

“How much will you give?”

The question echoed. Later I realized it was just our imagination. He probably spoke normally. Mickey suddenly pulled out crumpled bills.

“Fifty bucks.”

My jaw dropped — that was a fortune. Cylindr asked one last time.

“How much do you have?”

Mickey placed the bills on the laptop. The man nodded.

“It’s yours.”

He took the money. The deal was done. Mickey grabbed the laptop, Bobby grabbed the bag, and they bolted like lightning. As soon as I noticed, I ran after them. They had that expensive laptop and ran like they were afraid Cylindr would change his mind. I still heard his voice:

“How much do you have?”

He was asking another neighbor.

We reached our bunker. Mickey had a small room the size of a shed. For us, it was like a luxury hunting cabin.

“It won’t work anyway,” Bobby grumbled, way more vulgar than that.

The laptop hummed, the fans spun up and went quiet. Bobby snorted.

“Told you, you broke it.”

The screen lit up. They burst into cheering. Mickey laughed. When he got our attention, he pulled out two five‑dollar bills.

Recently I looked up that exact model online. The Frakes Mansion laptop was worth around 800 dollars back then. That’s why they ran and why they were so hyped. I didn’t know that — I was such a naive kid. Bobby understood but never explained anything. He called me mama’s boy and a dumbass. Especially when they stared into the computer. Mickey clicked around, browsing weird menus. It bored me to death.

Later they cheered again, jumping around. So I joined in. Then knocking interrupted us. Mickey’s dad had a rough tattoo peeking from his sleeve.

“Boys, have you seen that seller?”

Everyone stayed quiet. I couldn’t hold it and started talking.

“At the sale, yeah, he was there. Then he—”

Dad raised his hand to shut me up.

“Strange. He left some things behind. Uh, boys, don’t burn this place down.”

He said it and gave us that weird half‑smile adults do when they don’t really know what’s going on. Bobby glared at me. Mickey didn’t care, still exploring the black laptop.

When I went home, there were a few crates left in front of the Frakes Mansion. Some forgotten trinkets. At dinner, Mr. Cylindr was the main topic. My parents argued whether he was an auction seller or the dead man’s brother. They agreed he was definitely a Frakes.

Mickey stayed in the bunker, testing what the laptop could do. From my window I saw his house. How he argued with Bobby. Or how his window lit up at night from the screen. Or the day Bobby said we could play some games for free.

That’s when it escalated.

I was allowed into Mickey’s room for once. On the wall he had a red spray‑painted heart‑shaped grenade. Next to it, magazine cutouts of bands. I didn’t know any of them. A Joker poster with a card in front of his face — disturbingly cool. And Megan Fox. Or Nikki the wrestling diva in tight shorts. I wanted posters like that too, but my parents would’ve torn me apart.

While I snooped around, the boys typed weird number codes into the search bar. It looked like gibberish. Boring and slow. Until Bobby jumped back from the table like a frog. I flinched. They typed numbers and letters, waited, nothing loaded. That’s how I remember it. They tried other numbers, same boring loop.

Then they stared at the screen in fear.

“Te Specto.”

A pulsing message. Mickey quickly searched for the Wi‑Fi switch. It was somewhere on the side. The message vanished and they both sighed in relief.

Only for it to pop up again.

“Te Specto.”

Bobby stood up and ran for the door.

“Fuck,” he cursed while stomping down the stairs.

These things stuck in my memory. In the following days Mickey faded away. Stayed home, exploring what was hidden inside the laptop. Outside he was grumpy and irritable. In the evening I saw him still playing something. Me and Bobby had nothing to say to each other. So I stopped seeing Mickey.

When I dared to ask Bobby, he only said:

“That fucking onion.”

Days turned into weeks. Whenever I saw Mickey, he looked worse—he was exhausted, skinny. His hair looked strangely pale. He was withdrawn.

Then one day Bobby grabbed me and dragged me to the bunker. Mickey leaned on a chair, his face sunken. He glared at us.

“That laptop is something extra.”

Bobby shook his head.

“You’ve lost it! You dragged us here just to say that?”

Mickey smiled. But wrong. Like he forgot how a smile is supposed to look.

“Those words… it wasn’t a hacker. Not a virus. Something lives in that machine.”

He paused. I suddenly asked:

“What lives in there?”

It felt like someone else said it. Mickey opened the laptop. A green screen glowed.

“Te Specto. It’s Latin. A priest told me. It means I’m watching you.”

Bobby grunted.

“So something living inside sees you? You’re insane.”

Mickey shrugged. A full name appeared on the screen:

Bobby — arson — Clark’s barn.

“This isn’t okay! I didn’t do it. I was never there.”

I stared at the laptop, which was offline. Mickey showed us.

“Let’s get rid of it,” Bobby growled.

But Mickey raised his hand weakly.

“Old Frakes got rid of it, right? If he managed, I can manage too.”

Bobby looked at me.

“We’re out, kid. And you — Mickey — get your shit together.”

That was the last time I saw Mickey.

I fell from a tree and broke my leg. I stayed home, lying around, watching cartoons. Bored out of my mind. There was some complication; the leg healed badly. Everything dragged on.

I was lying there when I heard a siren. I looked out the window and saw curtains moving in the neighboring houses, people peeking out. The street filled with hysterical crying and sobbing. Mickey on a stretcher. Chaos and flashing lights of the big ambulance swallowing the street. I felt like Mickey was looking at me. He disappeared inside so fast. Only an empty spot on the road remained.

I saw Bobby standing at the corner. He only saw Mickey leaving.

Mickey died of cardiac arrest. He was malnourished and his body was exhausted. Dad said obsession consumed him. I wondered what obsession even meant. When he saw me listening, he looked guilty.

Sometime when winter felt endless, a FOR SALE sign appeared. Mickey’s dad came to say goodbye to mine. Asked him to watch over the sale. They’d been friends for years.

When it finally got warm, the sale began. The real estate agent’s car stood in the driveway. Looked like they were selling almost everything. Bobby came. Supposedly looking for a good deal. I think he wanted to remember Mickey one last time.

The screech of brakes made me jump. It sounded disturbingly familiar. A big brown‑orange Pontiac Catalina from the 70s. With that huge eagle nose.

The door opened — a hand with a top hat appeared. The chubby man in the striped vest stepped out and straightened his hat. He turned slowly, smoothly. And that expression—the wrinkles around that smile—they were already there.

He walked to the tables. Gestured at the neighbors, encouraging them. Hovered his hand over the items, moving randomly. Then he stopped mid‑step. Right above the laptop.

The black notebook with the sticker: “Property of Mickey — hands off.”

Mr. Cylindr began offering items.

“How much do you have?”

Those words hit me, made me feel sick.

“How much do you have?”

by Hary Sykora

This happened on our street. We had a dare to walk across the garden of the Frakes Mansion. I still get goosebumps thinking about it. That old huge house looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Especially when it rained; we always walked around it in a wide arc.

The creepy old man who lived there almost never came outside. The boys bragged about the weird things they’d seen through his windows, or who managed to get all the way to his porch. Whenever someone delivered something to him, it was always in a wooden crate. Seriously, like in a cartoon. There were strange symbols on it, or foreign languages.

I nearly panicked when I saw him through the glass in the door. Hunched over, holding a crowbar, a tattoo of a mermaid on his arm. Then Mickey laughed at me. I was the runt. He and his buddy were so tough. Now when I think back and replay it, they were just suburban kids. I kept following them around and they kept brushing me off. Over and over.

One night the sirens woke me up. The creepy old man died. I pressed myself against the window. They were hauling his big body away in a bag. My first thought was that he’d definitely become some kind of ghost. Only a kid thinks of stuff like that.

It was autumn, I remember that. The street was orange and leaves were everywhere. A crowd of people stood in front of the Frakes Mansion. As kids, we had to be there too. Folding tables were bending under the weight of stuff from the house. Old candle holders, porcelain, uranium glass. Mickey recognized it — he called it Hulk glass. Radioactive stuff, wow. What kind of guy was that old man?

But there wasnt time to stare. Because Cylindr arrived. We didn’t call him anything else. A chubby old guy with sideburns. White shirt, striped vest. Bobby claimed he was the dead man’s brother. We knew nothing. Later I asked my parents — they had no idea who he could be. Bobby hated me, as far as I remember, and after what happened to Mickey, he never spoke to me again.

Cylindr had that wide, picture-perfect smile, except he had it all the time. He scared me. That was Mickey’s cue to start showing off. He rummaged through things and complained theatrically. Cylindr watched him without even turning his head. Then Mickey froze mid‑movement. Like a statue. I ran to him and heard Bobby’s mocking grunt.

There was a laptop. Brand new. A black, plain ThinkPad. Mickey was looking at it, searching for something. I had no idea what weird labels he was looking for. Bobby shoved me aside. They started arguing. Whispering excitedly, pushing each other.

I jumped when I noticed Cylindr watching us. Mickey smacked Bobby to calm him down, putting on a bored expression. I copied him immediately.

“How much for this piece of junk?”

Silence. I thought Mickey went too far. Cylindr turned to him.

“How much do you have?”

Bobby threatened him with a fist. “Hey, don’t mess with us.”

Silence. Neighbors around us were browsing the items, but he stood there with a bunch of kids who obviously had almost no money.

“How much do you have?” he asked again.

Mickey started digging through his pockets.

“How much will you give?”

The question echoed. Later I realized it was just our imagination. He probably spoke normally. Mickey suddenly pulled out crumpled bills.

“Fifty bucks.”

My jaw dropped — that was a fortune. Cylindr asked one last time.

“How much do you have?”

Mickey placed the bills on the laptop. The man nodded.

“It’s yours.”

He took the money. The deal was done. Mickey grabbed the laptop, Bobby grabbed the bag, and they bolted like lightning. As soon as I noticed, I ran after them. They had that expensive laptop and ran like they were afraid Cylindr would change his mind. I still heard his voice:

“How much do you have?”

He was asking another neighbor.

We reached our bunker. Mickey had a small room the size of a shed. For us, it was like a luxury hunting cabin.

“It won’t work anyway,” Bobby grumbled, way more vulgar than that.

The laptop hummed, the fans spun up and went quiet. Bobby snorted.

“Told you, you broke it.”

The screen lit up. They burst into cheering. Mickey laughed. When he got our attention, he pulled out two five‑dollar bills.

Recently I looked up that exact model online. The Frakes Mansion laptop was worth around 800 dollars back then. That’s why they ran and why they were so hyped. I didn’t know that — I was such a naive kid. Bobby understood but never explained anything. He called me mama’s boy and a dumbass. Especially when they stared into the computer. Mickey clicked around, browsing weird menus. It bored me to death.

Later they cheered again, jumping around. So I joined in. Then knocking interrupted us. Mickey’s dad had a rough tattoo peeking from his sleeve.

“Boys, have you seen that seller?”

Everyone stayed quiet. I couldn’t hold it and started talking.

“At the sale, yeah, he was there. Then he—”

Dad raised his hand to shut me up.

“Strange. He left some things behind. Uh, boys, don’t burn this place down.”

He said it and gave us that weird half‑smile adults do when they don’t really know what’s going on. Bobby glared at me. Mickey didn’t care, still exploring the black laptop.

When I went home, there were a few crates left in front of the Frakes Mansion. Some forgotten trinkets. At dinner, Mr. Cylindr was the main topic. My parents argued whether he was an auction seller or the dead man’s brother. They agreed he was definitely a Frakes.

Mickey stayed in the bunker, testing what the laptop could do. From my window I saw his house. How he argued with Bobby. Or how his window lit up at night from the screen. Or the day Bobby said we could play some games for free.

That’s when it escalated.

I was allowed into Mickey’s room for once. On the wall he had a red spray‑painted heart‑shaped grenade. Next to it, magazine cutouts of bands. I didn’t know any of them. A Joker poster with a card in front of his face — disturbingly cool. And Megan Fox. Or Nikki the wrestling diva in tight shorts. I wanted posters like that too, but my parents would’ve torn me apart.

While I snooped around, the boys typed weird number codes into the search bar. It looked like gibberish. Boring and slow. Until Bobby jumped back from the table like a frog. I flinched. They typed numbers and letters, waited, nothing loaded. That’s how I remember it. They tried other numbers, same boring loop.

Then they stared at the screen in fear.

“Te Specto.”

A pulsing message. Mickey quickly searched for the Wi‑Fi switch. It was somewhere on the side. The message vanished and they both sighed in relief.

Only for it to pop up again.

“Te Specto.”

Bobby stood up and ran for the door.

“Fuck,” he cursed while stomping down the stairs.

These things stuck in my memory. In the following days Mickey faded away. Stayed home, exploring what was hidden inside the laptop. Outside he was grumpy and irritable. In the evening I saw him still playing something. Me and Bobby had nothing to say to each other. So I stopped seeing Mickey.

When I dared to ask Bobby, he only said:

“That fucking onion.”

Days turned into weeks. Whenever I saw Mickey, he looked worse—he was exhausted, skinny. His hair looked strangely pale. He was withdrawn.

Then one day Bobby grabbed me and dragged me to the bunker. Mickey leaned on a chair, his face sunken. He glared at us.

“That laptop is something extra.”

Bobby shook his head.

“You’ve lost it! You dragged us here just to say that?”

Mickey smiled. But wrong. Like he forgot how a smile is supposed to look.

“Those words… it wasn’t a hacker. Not a virus. Something lives in that machine.”

He paused. I suddenly asked:

“What lives in there?”

It felt like someone else said it. Mickey opened the laptop. A green screen glowed.

“Te Specto. It’s Latin. A priest told me. It means I’m watching you.”

Bobby grunted.

“So something living inside sees you? You’re insane.”

Mickey shrugged. A full name appeared on the screen:

Bobby — arson — Clark’s barn.

“This isn’t okay! I didn’t do it. I was never there.”

I stared at the laptop, which was offline. Mickey showed us.

“Let’s get rid of it,” Bobby growled.

But Mickey raised his hand weakly.

“Old Frakes got rid of it, right? If he managed, I can manage too.”

Bobby looked at me.

“We’re out, kid. And you — Mickey — get your shit together.”

That was the last time I saw Mickey.

I fell from a tree and broke my leg. I stayed home, lying around, watching cartoons. Bored out of my mind. There was some complication; the leg healed badly. Everything dragged on.

I was lying there when I heard a siren. I looked out the window and saw curtains moving in the neighboring houses, people peeking out. The street filled with hysterical crying and sobbing. Mickey on a stretcher. Chaos and flashing lights of the big ambulance swallowing the street. I felt like Mickey was looking at me. He disappeared inside so fast. Only an empty spot on the road remained.

I saw Bobby standing at the corner. He only saw Mickey leaving.

Mickey died of cardiac arrest. He was malnourished and his body was exhausted. Dad said obsession consumed him. I wondered what obsession even meant. When he saw me listening, he looked guilty.

Sometime when winter felt endless, a FOR SALE sign appeared. Mickey’s dad came to say goodbye to mine. Asked him to watch over the sale. They’d been friends for years.

When it finally got warm, the sale began. The real estate agent’s car stood in the driveway. Looked like they were selling almost everything. Bobby came. Supposedly looking for a good deal. I think he wanted to remember Mickey one last time.

The screech of brakes made me jump. It sounded disturbingly familiar. A big brown‑orange Pontiac Catalina from the 70s. With that huge eagle nose.

The door opened — a hand with a top hat appeared. The chubby man in the striped vest stepped out and straightened his hat. He turned slowly, smoothly. And that expression—the wrinkles around that smile—they were already there.

He walked to the tables. Gestured at the neighbors, encouraging them. Hovered his hand over the items, moving randomly. Then he stopped mid‑step. Right above the laptop.

The black notebook with the sticker: “Property of Mickey — hands off.”

Mr. Cylindr began offering items.

“How much do you have?”

Those words hit me, made me feel sick.

“How much do you have?”

by Hary Sykora

This happened on our street. We had a dare to walk across the garden of the Frakes Mansion. I still get goosebumps thinking about it. That old huge house looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Especially when it rained; we always walked around it in a wide arc.

The creepy old man who lived there almost never came outside. The boys bragged about the weird things they’d seen through his windows, or who managed to get all the way to his porch. Whenever someone delivered something to him, it was always in a wooden crate. Seriously, like in a cartoon. There were strange symbols on it, or foreign languages.

I nearly panicked when I saw him through the glass in the door. Hunched over, holding a crowbar, a tattoo of a mermaid on his arm. Then Mickey laughed at me. I was the runt. He and his buddy were so tough. Now when I think back and replay it, they were just suburban kids. I kept following them around and they kept brushing me off. Over and over.

One night the sirens woke me up. The creepy old man died. I pressed myself against the window. They were hauling his big body away in a bag. My first thought was that he’d definitely become some kind of ghost. Only a kid thinks of stuff like that.

It was autumn, I remember that. The street was orange and leaves were everywhere. A crowd of people stood in front of the Frakes Mansion. As kids, we had to be there too. Folding tables were bending under the weight of stuff from the house. Old candle holders, porcelain, uranium glass. Mickey recognized it — he called it Hulk glass. Radioactive stuff, wow. What kind of guy was that old man?

But there wasnt time to stare. Because Cylindr arrived. We didn’t call him anything else. A chubby old guy with sideburns. White shirt, striped vest. Bobby claimed he was the dead man’s brother. We knew nothing. Later I asked my parents — they had no idea who he could be. Bobby hated me, as far as I remember, and after what happened to Mickey, he never spoke to me again.

Cylindr had that wide, picture-perfect smile, except he had it all the time. He scared me. That was Mickey’s cue to start showing off. He rummaged through things and complained theatrically. Cylindr watched him without even turning his head. Then Mickey froze mid‑movement. Like a statue. I ran to him and heard Bobby’s mocking grunt.

There was a laptop. Brand new. A black, plain ThinkPad. Mickey was looking at it, searching for something. I had no idea what weird labels he was looking for. Bobby shoved me aside. They started arguing. Whispering excitedly, pushing each other.

I jumped when I noticed Cylindr watching us. Mickey smacked Bobby to calm him down, putting on a bored expression. I copied him immediately.

“How much for this piece of junk?”

Silence. I thought Mickey went too far. Cylindr turned to him.

“How much do you have?”

Bobby threatened him with a fist. “Hey, don’t mess with us.”

Silence. Neighbors around us were browsing the items, but he stood there with a bunch of kids who obviously had almost no money.

“How much do you have?” he asked again.

Mickey started digging through his pockets.

“How much will you give?”

The question echoed. Later I realized it was just our imagination. He probably spoke normally. Mickey suddenly pulled out crumpled bills.

“Fifty bucks.”

My jaw dropped — that was a fortune. Cylindr asked one last time.

“How much do you have?”

Mickey placed the bills on the laptop. The man nodded.

“It’s yours.”

He took the money. The deal was done. Mickey grabbed the laptop, Bobby grabbed the bag, and they bolted like lightning. As soon as I noticed, I ran after them. They had that expensive laptop and ran like they were afraid Cylindr would change his mind. I still heard his voice:

“How much do you have?”

He was asking another neighbor.

We reached our bunker. Mickey had a small room the size of a shed. For us, it was like a luxury hunting cabin.

“It won’t work anyway,” Bobby grumbled, way more vulgar than that.

The laptop hummed, the fans spun up and went quiet. Bobby snorted.

“Told you, you broke it.”

The screen lit up. They burst into cheering. Mickey laughed. When he got our attention, he pulled out two five‑dollar bills.

Recently I looked up that exact model online. The Frakes Mansion laptop was worth around 800 dollars back then. That’s why they ran and why they were so hyped. I didn’t know that — I was such a naive kid. Bobby understood but never explained anything. He called me mama’s boy and a dumbass. Especially when they stared into the computer. Mickey clicked around, browsing weird menus. It bored me to death.

Later they cheered again, jumping around. So I joined in. Then knocking interrupted us. Mickey’s dad had a rough tattoo peeking from his sleeve.

“Boys, have you seen that seller?”

Everyone stayed quiet. I couldn’t hold it and started talking.

“At the sale, yeah, he was there. Then he—”

Dad raised his hand to shut me up.

“Strange. He left some things behind. Uh, boys, don’t burn this place down.”

He said it and gave us that weird half‑smile adults do when they don’t really know what’s going on. Bobby glared at me. Mickey didn’t care, still exploring the black laptop.

When I went home, there were a few crates left in front of the Frakes Mansion. Some forgotten trinkets. At dinner, Mr. Cylindr was the main topic. My parents argued whether he was an auction seller or the dead man’s brother. They agreed he was definitely a Frakes.

Mickey stayed in the bunker, testing what the laptop could do. From my window I saw his house. How he argued with Bobby. Or how his window lit up at night from the screen. Or the day Bobby said we could play some games for free.

That’s when it escalated.

I was allowed into Mickey’s room for once. On the wall he had a red spray‑painted heart‑shaped grenade. Next to it, magazine cutouts of bands. I didn’t know any of them. A Joker poster with a card in front of his face — disturbingly cool. And Megan Fox. Or Nikki the wrestling diva in tight shorts. I wanted posters like that too, but my parents would’ve torn me apart.

While I snooped around, the boys typed weird number codes into the search bar. It looked like gibberish. Boring and slow. Until Bobby jumped back from the table like a frog. I flinched. They typed numbers and letters, waited, nothing loaded. That’s how I remember it. They tried other numbers, same boring loop.

Then they stared at the screen in fear.

“Te Specto.”

A pulsing message. Mickey quickly searched for the Wi‑Fi switch. It was somewhere on the side. The message vanished and they both sighed in relief.

Only for it to pop up again.

“Te Specto.”

Bobby stood up and ran for the door.

“Fuck,” he cursed while stomping down the stairs.

These things stuck in my memory. In the following days Mickey faded away. Stayed home, exploring what was hidden inside the laptop. Outside he was grumpy and irritable. In the evening I saw him still playing something. Me and Bobby had nothing to say to each other. So I stopped seeing Mickey.

When I dared to ask Bobby, he only said:

“That fucking onion.”

Days turned into weeks. Whenever I saw Mickey, he looked worse—he was exhausted, skinny. His hair looked strangely pale. He was withdrawn.

Then one day Bobby grabbed me and dragged me to the bunker. Mickey leaned on a chair, his face sunken. He glared at us.

“That laptop is something extra.”

Bobby shook his head.

“You’ve lost it! You dragged us here just to say that?”

Mickey smiled. But wrong. Like he forgot how a smile is supposed to look.

“Those words… it wasn’t a hacker. Not a virus. Something lives in that machine.”

He paused. I suddenly asked:

“What lives in there?”

It felt like someone else said it. Mickey opened the laptop. A green screen glowed.

“Te Specto. It’s Latin. A priest told me. It means I’m watching you.”

Bobby grunted.

“So something living inside sees you? You’re insane.”

Mickey shrugged. A full name appeared on the screen:

Bobby — arson — Clark’s barn.

“This isn’t okay! I didn’t do it. I was never there.”

I stared at the laptop, which was offline. Mickey showed us.

“Let’s get rid of it,” Bobby growled.

But Mickey raised his hand weakly.

“Old Frakes got rid of it, right? If he managed, I can manage too.”

Bobby looked at me.

“We’re out, kid. And you — Mickey — get your shit together.”

That was the last time I saw Mickey.

I fell from a tree and broke my leg. I stayed home, lying around, watching cartoons. Bored out of my mind. There was some complication; the leg healed badly. Everything dragged on.

I was lying there when I heard a siren. I looked out the window and saw curtains moving in the neighboring houses, people peeking out. The street filled with hysterical crying and sobbing. Mickey on a stretcher. Chaos and flashing lights of the big ambulance swallowing the street. I felt like Mickey was looking at me. He disappeared inside so fast. Only an empty spot on the road remained.

I saw Bobby standing at the corner. He only saw Mickey leaving.

Mickey died of cardiac arrest. He was malnourished and his body was exhausted. Dad said obsession consumed him. I wondered what obsession even meant. When he saw me listening, he looked guilty.

Sometime when winter felt endless, a FOR SALE sign appeared. Mickey’s dad came to say goodbye to mine. Asked him to watch over the sale. They’d been friends for years.

When it finally got warm, the sale began. The real estate agent’s car stood in the driveway. Looked like they were selling almost everything. Bobby came. Supposedly looking for a good deal. I think he wanted to remember Mickey one last time.

The screech of brakes made me jump. It sounded disturbingly familiar. A big brown‑orange Pontiac Catalina from the 70s. With that huge eagle nose.

The door opened — a hand with a top hat appeared. The chubby man in the striped vest stepped out and straightened his hat. He turned slowly, smoothly. And that expression—the wrinkles around that smile—they were already there.

He walked to the tables. Gestured at the neighbors, encouraging them. Hovered his hand over the items, moving randomly. Then he stopped mid‑step. Right above the laptop.

The black notebook with the sticker: “Property of Mickey — hands off.”

Mr. Cylindr began offering items.

“How much do you have?”

Those words hit me, made me feel sick.

“How much do you have?”

by Hary Sykora

This happened on our street. We had a dare to walk across the garden of the Frakes Mansion. I still get goosebumps thinking about it. That old huge house looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Especially when it rained; we always walked around it in a wide arc.

The creepy old man who lived there almost never came outside. The boys bragged about the weird things they’d seen through his windows, or who managed to get all the way to his porch. Whenever someone delivered something to him, it was always in a wooden crate. Seriously, like in a cartoon. There were strange symbols on it, or foreign languages.

I nearly panicked when I saw him through the glass in the door. Hunched over, holding a crowbar, a tattoo of a mermaid on his arm. Then Mickey laughed at me. I was the runt. He and his buddy were so tough. Now when I think back and replay it, they were just suburban kids. I kept following them around and they kept brushing me off. Over and over.

One night the sirens woke me up. The creepy old man died. I pressed myself against the window. They were hauling his big body away in a bag. My first thought was that he’d definitely become some kind of ghost. Only a kid thinks of stuff like that.

It was autumn, I remember that. The street was orange and leaves were everywhere. A crowd of people stood in front of the Frakes Mansion. As kids, we had to be there too. Folding tables were bending under the weight of stuff from the house. Old candle holders, porcelain, uranium glass. Mickey recognized it — he called it Hulk glass. Radioactive stuff, wow. What kind of guy was that old man?

But there wasnt time to stare. Because Cylindr arrived. We didn’t call him anything else. A chubby old guy with sideburns. White shirt, striped vest. Bobby claimed he was the dead man’s brother. We knew nothing. Later I asked my parents — they had no idea who he could be. Bobby hated me, as far as I remember, and after what happened to Mickey, he never spoke to me again.

Cylindr had that wide, picture-perfect smile, except he had it all the time. He scared me. That was Mickey’s cue to start showing off. He rummaged through things and complained theatrically. Cylindr watched him without even turning his head. Then Mickey froze mid‑movement. Like a statue. I ran to him and heard Bobby’s mocking grunt.

There was a laptop. Brand new. A black, plain ThinkPad. Mickey was looking at it, searching for something. I had no idea what weird labels he was looking for. Bobby shoved me aside. They started arguing. Whispering excitedly, pushing each other.

I jumped when I noticed Cylindr watching us. Mickey smacked Bobby to calm him down, putting on a bored expression. I copied him immediately.

“How much for this piece of junk?”

Silence. I thought Mickey went too far. Cylindr turned to him.

“How much do you have?”

Bobby threatened him with a fist. “Hey, don’t mess with us.”

Silence. Neighbors around us were browsing the items, but he stood there with a bunch of kids who obviously had almost no money.

“How much do you have?” he asked again.

Mickey started digging through his pockets.

“How much will you give?”

The question echoed. Later I realized it was just our imagination. He probably spoke normally. Mickey suddenly pulled out crumpled bills.

“Fifty bucks.”

My jaw dropped — that was a fortune. Cylindr asked one last time.

“How much do you have?”

Mickey placed the bills on the laptop. The man nodded.

“It’s yours.”

He took the money. The deal was done. Mickey grabbed the laptop, Bobby grabbed the bag, and they bolted like lightning. As soon as I noticed, I ran after them. They had that expensive laptop and ran like they were afraid Cylindr would change his mind. I still heard his voice:

“How much do you have?”

He was asking another neighbor.

We reached our bunker. Mickey had a small room the size of a shed. For us, it was like a luxury hunting cabin.

“It won’t work anyway,” Bobby grumbled, way more vulgar than that.

The laptop hummed, the fans spun up and went quiet. Bobby snorted.

“Told you, you broke it.”

The screen lit up. They burst into cheering. Mickey laughed. When he got our attention, he pulled out two five‑dollar bills.

Recently I looked up that exact model online. The Frakes Mansion laptop was worth around 800 dollars back then. That’s why they ran and why they were so hyped. I didn’t know that — I was such a naive kid. Bobby understood but never explained anything. He called me mama’s boy and a dumbass. Especially when they stared into the computer. Mickey clicked around, browsing weird menus. It bored me to death.

Later they cheered again, jumping around. So I joined in. Then knocking interrupted us. Mickey’s dad had a rough tattoo peeking from his sleeve.

“Boys, have you seen that seller?”

Everyone stayed quiet. I couldn’t hold it and started talking.

“At the sale, yeah, he was there. Then he—”

Dad raised his hand to shut me up.

“Strange. He left some things behind. Uh, boys, don’t burn this place down.”

He said it and gave us that weird half‑smile adults do when they don’t really know what’s going on. Bobby glared at me. Mickey didn’t care, still exploring the black laptop.

When I went home, there were a few crates left in front of the Frakes Mansion. Some forgotten trinkets. At dinner, Mr. Cylindr was the main topic. My parents argued whether he was an auction seller or the dead man’s brother. They agreed he was definitely a Frakes.

Mickey stayed in the bunker, testing what the laptop could do. From my window I saw his house. How he argued with Bobby. Or how his window lit up at night from the screen. Or the day Bobby said we could play some games for free.

That’s when it escalated.

I was allowed into Mickey’s room for once. On the wall he had a red spray‑painted heart‑shaped grenade. Next to it, magazine cutouts of bands. I didn’t know any of them. A Joker poster with a card in front of his face — disturbingly cool. And Megan Fox. Or Nikki the wrestling diva in tight shorts. I wanted posters like that too, but my parents would’ve torn me apart.

While I snooped around, the boys typed weird number codes into the search bar. It looked like gibberish. Boring and slow. Until Bobby jumped back from the table like a frog. I flinched. They typed numbers and letters, waited, nothing loaded. That’s how I remember it. They tried other numbers, same boring loop.

Then they stared at the screen in fear.

“Te Specto.”

A pulsing message. Mickey quickly searched for the Wi‑Fi switch. It was somewhere on the side. The message vanished and they both sighed in relief.

Only for it to pop up again.

“Te Specto.”

Bobby stood up and ran for the door.

“Fuck,” he cursed while stomping down the stairs.

These things stuck in my memory. In the following days Mickey faded away. Stayed home, exploring what was hidden inside the laptop. Outside he was grumpy and irritable. In the evening I saw him still playing something. Me and Bobby had nothing to say to each other. So I stopped seeing Mickey.

When I dared to ask Bobby, he only said:

“That fucking onion.”

Days turned into weeks. Whenever I saw Mickey, he looked worse—he was exhausted, skinny. His hair looked strangely pale. He was withdrawn.

Then one day Bobby grabbed me and dragged me to the bunker. Mickey leaned on a chair, his face sunken. He glared at us.

“That laptop is something extra.”

Bobby shook his head.

“You’ve lost it! You dragged us here just to say that?”

Mickey smiled. But wrong. Like he forgot how a smile is supposed to look.

“Those words… it wasn’t a hacker. Not a virus. Something lives in that machine.”

He paused. I suddenly asked:

“What lives in there?”

It felt like someone else said it. Mickey opened the laptop. A green screen glowed.

“Te Specto. It’s Latin. A priest told me. It means I’m watching you.”

Bobby grunted.

“So something living inside sees you? You’re insane.”

Mickey shrugged. A full name appeared on the screen:

Bobby — arson — Clark’s barn.

“This isn’t okay! I didn’t do it. I was never there.”

I stared at the laptop, which was offline. Mickey showed us.

“Let’s get rid of it,” Bobby growled.

But Mickey raised his hand weakly.

“Old Frakes got rid of it, right? If he managed, I can manage too.”

Bobby looked at me.

“We’re out, kid. And you — Mickey — get your shit together.”

That was the last time I saw Mickey.

I fell from a tree and broke my leg. I stayed home, lying around, watching cartoons. Bored out of my mind. There was some complication; the leg healed badly. Everything dragged on.

I was lying there when I heard a siren. I looked out the window and saw curtains moving in the neighboring houses, people peeking out. The street filled with hysterical crying and sobbing. Mickey on a stretcher. Chaos and flashing lights of the big ambulance swallowing the street. I felt like Mickey was looking at me. He disappeared inside so fast. Only an empty spot on the road remained.

I saw Bobby standing at the corner. He only saw Mickey leaving.

Mickey died of cardiac arrest. He was malnourished and his body was exhausted. Dad said obsession consumed him. I wondered what obsession even meant. When he saw me listening, he looked guilty.

Sometime when winter felt endless, a FOR SALE sign appeared. Mickey’s dad came to say goodbye to mine. Asked him to watch over the sale. They’d been friends for years.

When it finally got warm, the sale began. The real estate agent’s car stood in the driveway. Looked like they were selling almost everything. Bobby came. Supposedly looking for a good deal. I think he wanted to remember Mickey one last time.

The screech of brakes made me jump. It sounded disturbingly familiar. A big brown‑orange Pontiac Catalina from the 70s. With that huge eagle nose.

The door opened — a hand with a top hat appeared. The chubby man in the striped vest stepped out and straightened his hat. He turned slowly, smoothly. And that expression—the wrinkles around that smile—they were already there.

He walked to the tables. Gestured at the neighbors, encouraging them. Hovered his hand over the items, moving randomly. Then he stopped mid‑step. Right above the laptop.

The black notebook with the sticker: “Property of Mickey — hands off.”

Mr. Cylindr began offering items.

“How much do you have?”

Those words hit me, made me feel sick.

“How much do you have?”

by Hary Sykora

Mike Cross – Rating: 1 star
The Bad Moon Motel is a place that ruined my entire vacation. Let’s take it one by one—the photos of the place do not match reality. This establishment looks like no one has ever repaired a single thing. They will try to tell you it’s "patina"—no way, the place is literally falling apart. It has the look of a motel from the 1950s, and that was probably the last time anyone cleaned here. Right now, they are digging some horrible pit on the grounds that ruins what little the place has to offer. According to the front desk, they are digging a new septic tank. In the middle of the high season? Seriously? The parking lot and the entrance look like some abandoned urbex site. And Tony... oh, Tony. He should be mentioned in the motel description. That guy who always has white sunscreen on his nose... he is something else. He constantly lectures everyone. Don’t run around the pool. Don’t invite guests over. Don’t wander around the grounds. Shake the beach sand off before entering the resort. Repark your car closer to your room. Report every car trip to the staff. He is a total pain. And the resort doesn’t even have a fence, damn it. The receptionist is bored and absent, and most of the time, I mean that literally. Either he’s doing something else, or the night shift simply doesn't show up. You see less of him than you don't. When I was looking for him at night, I ran into a guy holding an axe. Who the hell walks around a motel at night with an axe in his hand? And you know what? Tony doesn't say a word to him—Tony, the guy who always has answers to unanswered questions. That axe-wielding guy is seriously creepy; he walks down the hallways with a damn axe in his hand, and nobody notices him, nobody deals with him. Maybe he was the caretaker, I really hope so. He gave me goosebumps. The beds are sagging and covered in stains. But that’s not the worst part. When I finally gathered the courage to lie down, someone was watching me. No, I’m not paranoid. That thing was standing there, staring at me through the window. It was past midnight, and he’s just standing there, watching, not saying a word, not moving, just staring at me. When I rushed out at him, by the time I managed to open the door, he was already leaving. The guy didn’t even have the decency to run. He just walked and disappeared into the darkness. Why the darkness? The parking lot lights are just for decoration because only about one of them actually works. The beach is okay, relatively clean. Allegedly, there are renovations underway—by that, they probably mean there’s some tools lying around here and there. When I went to check out, I noticed yellow missing persons posters on the bulletin board. That really improved my impression of the place. The worst place I have ever been. If you are considering a stay, RUN AWAY!

I don't usually do this, but I just had to write this frustration-filled review after a ruined vacation. I ignored it for a few days afterward. But that bitter aftertaste of anger stayed with me. And because I kept thinking about it, I decided to soothe my curiosity by reading other reviews. You know what? It was so strange it kept me awake. Oh, and that peeping tom made me a bit nervous even though I was already back home. That invasion of privacy doesn’t just fade away—it’s an unpleasant feeling. So, I suddenly found myself looking at the Bad Moon Motel reviews and clicking through the photos attached to them. Yeah, I know, I should have read them before the vacation, but it was a spontaneous idea. Unexpected time off, an adventure in Florida—it’s going to be great. Well, it wasn't. So here I am, sitting and reading through most of the reviews. I shouldn't have done it, because after that, I couldn't just let it go. This place could easily be compared to the Bates Motel. Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but it is a truly bizarre place. I am attaching a few reviews from others. See for yourselves.

Steve Chris – Rating: 1 star
One of the WORST places. Horrible check-in: it took an hour. A line of 10 people. The smell of decay and death like in a funeral home! A stained, hairy carpet that looks like the hide of a dead deer. The staff are either smoking or drinking alcohol in the back room—they come back sweaty and drunk. We had to change rooms twice. Bad reservation. Creaking beds. No room numbering. A basic room with a broken TV and a non-functional remote. Dirty, dilapidated rooms.

Helen Smith – Rating: 1 star
Aside from rooms that were shoeboxes and a bathroom I’d expect in a prison, everything was dirty and sticky. Behind the nightstand, we found a soda bottle and an empty bag of chips. That Tony guy was ogling me and constantly annoyed me with instructions. Who hired this guy!

Linda Louise – Rating: 1 star
If I could give 0 stars, I would. Items were stolen from my room, and the management didn't even attempt to resolve the situation. Tony was always loitering around the pool. If you want a peeping tom looking into your room, come here! And Tony, you piece of shit, go fuck yourself.

Jay Gulio – Rating: 1 star
In one word—a disaster. A pit right behind the room. When the owner accidentally showed up, he just said, "We are renovating," and then proceeded to ignore me. Twenty minutes later, he was gone. Tony is a chapter all on his own. I feel like he doesn’t even work there. The front desk is non-existent; they don't care. I never saw anyone at the front desk in the evening! But I did see the guy with the axe. What is he renovating with an axe at night?

Ethan Shepard – Rating: 1 star
This motel gives me goosebumps. Neglected, dirty... a front for some shady business? I don’t know, and I’m definitely not going to find out. A deep pit near the parking lot. Supposedly a new septic tank—at this rate, another thirty years and this place will be a three-star joint, if it doesn't fall down sooner. Someone was watching me through the window. I wanted to ignore him, but he stood there for easily twenty minutes. The curtain doesn’t cover the whole window. When I banged on the glass, he didn’t even flinch until he heard the door handle click, then he slowly walked away. In the bed, you can feel the springs right through the mattress.

Adam Williams – Rating: 1 star
Room was a bloody joke, an absolute pigsty. Some random bloke with an axe was wandering down the hallway at night. Ghost town at the front desk? Even when someone was there, they couldn’t give a toss, didn’t even bother to look up. Decorating the place with missing persons posters from around here... is that meant to be some sick gag? One day I walk past a room with no number to grab some brekkie, and the next day I see it’s freshly bricked up. Didn't seem right to me at all. Apparently, the owner wants a massive suite... I don't get it, and honestly, I don't want to. I’ve had a gutful. Never again.

Clare Brown – Rating: 1 star
The company booked this place for us. That’s probably how much they care about us. I met up with a colleague from the marketing department. Sitting by the pool and chatting was probably the only safe activity in that place. Tony said there were alligators. In the morning, however, came a shock. My colleague was gone—apparently, he checked out during the night and left. But his car is still parked in front of his room. His things were left there too. The front desk just shrugs their shoulders. He hasn't contacted the company since the stay either. A bad place.

As it probably won't surprise you after reading the reviews, I was even more confused about what kind of motel this is. Don't say I didn't warn you. Now I want to find out more. When I looked for information about it, it was beyond brief. One website literally looked like a Windows 95 template. The resort and motel were built in the late 1950s. Over time, it lost its reputation and popularity. Gradually, it became a cheap option for travelers and vacationers. But that pit... do they want to dig their way to hell? The next step was obvious—find images of the place. Good old Google will help, and the roadside motel looked almost unbelievable, appearing exactly the same. As if time had truly stopped there. Overgrown palm trees, a cracked parking lot, a shabby appearance. Two years ago, they were digging a pit near the parking lot. So, I tried satellite imagery. It wasn't as if I had many other places to look.

The pit moves. You don't believe it? I didn't believe it either. One time it's behind the motel, another time by the beach, another time under the palm trees, then right behind the rooms. They must have dug up that entire property easily twice over the years. Why do they need such large pits? And another interesting fact—the size of the rooms doesn’t match the layout of the motel. Some rooms must have been downsized. Certain spaces on the map weren't actually there in reality. At least, they weren't there when I spent my vacation there. Why downsize your own business? Why make certain spaces disappear?

Later I returned to it; there is really very little information on the internet. The Bad Moon Motel doesn't even try to have promotional materials or a description of its history. Advertising is probably a foreign word to them. But I did find something after all. An abandoned thread on Reddit, and in it, a link to a YouTube report by PLG 9, a small local TV station. It probably doesn't even exist anymore. What mattered was what was in it. Detective Mill standing in front of the Bad Moon Motel. He is sweating and trying to dry his forehead with a handkerchief. The reporter began her segment: "The police are continuing their search for a twenty-year-old man who disappeared over the weekend. He was last seen traveling toward the Bad Moon Motel. However, he did not check in here. We turn the microphone over to Detective Mill." He quickly smoothed his shirt and continued. "According to witnesses, the young man was moving toward the Bad Moon Motel. We are searching the area systematically. So far, without results. We appeal to the citizens for cooperation. Do not worry. However, this is not the first time we are dealing with a similar case." The reporter smiles, and a shot of a photograph of twenty-year-old Joe Martinez appears.

When I was playing it for about the third time, I noticed that someone was standing behind the detective before he started speaking. And that someone is Tony. He is younger, but it is definitely him. That face that constantly lectured me is not something I’ll forget easily. What happens in the motel will probably remain a mystery. I certainly have no intention of returning there. There are just too many oddities surrounding it. However, I am quite sure that those portraits of the missing people mentioned in some reviews—and I saw them with my own eyes—are the ones they were looking for. For one motel, that is beyond unsettling. If I find out anything else, I will add further discoveries.

There is something evil about that place. Something beneath the surface.

by Hary Sykora

Mike Cross – Rating: 1 star
The Bad Moon Motel is a place that ruined my entire vacation. Let’s take it one by one—the photos of the place do not match reality. This establishment looks like no one has ever repaired a single thing. They will try to tell you it’s "patina"—no way, the place is literally falling apart. It has the look of a motel from the 1950s, and that was probably the last time anyone cleaned here. Right now, they are digging some horrible pit on the grounds that ruins what little the place has to offer. According to the front desk, they are digging a new septic tank. In the middle of the high season? Seriously? The parking lot and the entrance look like some abandoned urbex site. And Tony... oh, Tony. He should be mentioned in the motel description. That guy who always has white sunscreen on his nose... he is something else. He constantly lectures everyone. Don’t run around the pool. Don’t invite guests over. Don’t wander around the grounds. Shake the beach sand off before entering the resort. Repark your car closer to your room. Report every car trip to the staff. He is a total pain. And the resort doesn’t even have a fence, damn it. The receptionist is bored and absent, and most of the time, I mean that literally. Either he’s doing something else, or the night shift simply doesn't show up. You see less of him than you don't. When I was looking for him at night, I ran into a guy holding an axe. Who the hell walks around a motel at night with an axe in his hand? And you know what? Tony doesn't say a word to him—Tony, the guy who always has answers to unanswered questions. That axe-wielding guy is seriously creepy; he walks down the hallways with a damn axe in his hand, and nobody notices him, nobody deals with him. Maybe he was the caretaker, I really hope so. He gave me goosebumps. The beds are sagging and covered in stains. But that’s not the worst part. When I finally gathered the courage to lie down, someone was watching me. No, I’m not paranoid. That thing was standing there, staring at me through the window. It was past midnight, and he’s just standing there, watching, not saying a word, not moving, just staring at me. When I rushed out at him, by the time I managed to open the door, he was already leaving. The guy didn’t even have the decency to run. He just walked and disappeared into the darkness. Why the darkness? The parking lot lights are just for decoration because only about one of them actually works. The beach is okay, relatively clean. Allegedly, there are renovations underway—by that, they probably mean there’s some tools lying around here and there. When I went to check out, I noticed yellow missing persons posters on the bulletin board. That really improved my impression of the place. The worst place I have ever been. If you are considering a stay, RUN AWAY!

I don't usually do this, but I just had to write this frustration-filled review after a ruined vacation. I ignored it for a few days afterward. But that bitter aftertaste of anger stayed with me. And because I kept thinking about it, I decided to soothe my curiosity by reading other reviews. You know what? It was so strange it kept me awake. Oh, and that peeping tom made me a bit nervous even though I was already back home. That invasion of privacy doesn’t just fade away—it’s an unpleasant feeling. So, I suddenly found myself looking at the Bad Moon Motel reviews and clicking through the photos attached to them. Yeah, I know, I should have read them before the vacation, but it was a spontaneous idea. Unexpected time off, an adventure in Florida—it’s going to be great. Well, it wasn't. So here I am, sitting and reading through most of the reviews. I shouldn't have done it, because after that, I couldn't just let it go. This place could easily be compared to the Bates Motel. Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but it is a truly bizarre place. I am attaching a few reviews from others. See for yourselves.

Steve Chris – Rating: 1 star
One of the WORST places. Horrible check-in: it took an hour. A line of 10 people. The smell of decay and death like in a funeral home! A stained, hairy carpet that looks like the hide of a dead deer. The staff are either smoking or drinking alcohol in the back room—they come back sweaty and drunk. We had to change rooms twice. Bad reservation. Creaking beds. No room numbering. A basic room with a broken TV and a non-functional remote. Dirty, dilapidated rooms.

Helen Smith – Rating: 1 star
Aside from rooms that were shoeboxes and a bathroom I’d expect in a prison, everything was dirty and sticky. Behind the nightstand, we found a soda bottle and an empty bag of chips. That Tony guy was ogling me and constantly annoyed me with instructions. Who hired this guy!

Linda Louise – Rating: 1 star
If I could give 0 stars, I would. Items were stolen from my room, and the management didn't even attempt to resolve the situation. Tony was always loitering around the pool. If you want a peeping tom looking into your room, come here! And Tony, you piece of shit, go fuck yourself.

Jay Gulio – Rating: 1 star
In one word—a disaster. A pit right behind the room. When the owner accidentally showed up, he just said, "We are renovating," and then proceeded to ignore me. Twenty minutes later, he was gone. Tony is a chapter all on his own. I feel like he doesn’t even work there. The front desk is non-existent; they don't care. I never saw anyone at the front desk in the evening! But I did see the guy with the axe. What is he renovating with an axe at night?

Ethan Shepard – Rating: 1 star
This motel gives me goosebumps. Neglected, dirty... a front for some shady business? I don’t know, and I’m definitely not going to find out. A deep pit near the parking lot. Supposedly a new septic tank—at this rate, another thirty years and this place will be a three-star joint, if it doesn't fall down sooner. Someone was watching me through the window. I wanted to ignore him, but he stood there for easily twenty minutes. The curtain doesn’t cover the whole window. When I banged on the glass, he didn’t even flinch until he heard the door handle click, then he slowly walked away. In the bed, you can feel the springs right through the mattress.

Adam Williams – Rating: 1 star
Room was a bloody joke, an absolute pigsty. Some random bloke with an axe was wandering down the hallway at night. Ghost town at the front desk? Even when someone was there, they couldn’t give a toss, didn’t even bother to look up. Decorating the place with missing persons posters from around here... is that meant to be some sick gag? One day I walk past a room with no number to grab some brekkie, and the next day I see it’s freshly bricked up. Didn't seem right to me at all. Apparently, the owner wants a massive suite... I don't get it, and honestly, I don't want to. I’ve had a gutful. Never again.

Clare Brown – Rating: 1 star
The company booked this place for us. That’s probably how much they care about us. I met up with a colleague from the marketing department. Sitting by the pool and chatting was probably the only safe activity in that place. Tony said there were alligators. In the morning, however, came a shock. My colleague was gone—apparently, he checked out during the night and left. But his car is still parked in front of his room. His things were left there too. The front desk just shrugs their shoulders. He hasn't contacted the company since the stay either. A bad place.

As it probably won't surprise you after reading the reviews, I was even more confused about what kind of motel this is. Don't say I didn't warn you. Now I want to find out more. When I looked for information about it, it was beyond brief. One website literally looked like a Windows 95 template. The resort and motel were built in the late 1950s. Over time, it lost its reputation and popularity. Gradually, it became a cheap option for travelers and vacationers. But that pit... do they want to dig their way to hell? The next step was obvious—find images of the place. Good old Google will help, and the roadside motel looked almost unbelievable, appearing exactly the same. As if time had truly stopped there. Overgrown palm trees, a cracked parking lot, a shabby appearance. Two years ago, they were digging a pit near the parking lot. So, I tried satellite imagery. It wasn't as if I had many other places to look.

The pit moves. You don't believe it? I didn't believe it either. One time it's behind the motel, another time by the beach, another time under the palm trees, then right behind the rooms. They must have dug up that entire property easily twice over the years. Why do they need such large pits? And another interesting fact—the size of the rooms doesn’t match the layout of the motel. Some rooms must have been downsized. Certain spaces on the map weren't actually there in reality. At least, they weren't there when I spent my vacation there. Why downsize your own business? Why make certain spaces disappear?

Later I returned to it; there is really very little information on the internet. The Bad Moon Motel doesn't even try to have promotional materials or a description of its history. Advertising is probably a foreign word to them. But I did find something after all. An abandoned thread on Reddit, and in it, a link to a YouTube report by PLG 9, a small local TV station. It probably doesn't even exist anymore. What mattered was what was in it. Detective Mill standing in front of the Bad Moon Motel. He is sweating and trying to dry his forehead with a handkerchief. The reporter began her segment: "The police are continuing their search for a twenty-year-old man who disappeared over the weekend. He was last seen traveling toward the Bad Moon Motel. However, he did not check in here. We turn the microphone over to Detective Mill." He quickly smoothed his shirt and continued. "According to witnesses, the young man was moving toward the Bad Moon Motel. We are searching the area systematically. So far, without results. We appeal to the citizens for cooperation. Do not worry. However, this is not the first time we are dealing with a similar case." The reporter smiles, and a shot of a photograph of twenty-year-old Joe Martinez appears.

When I was playing it for about the third time, I noticed that someone was standing behind the detective before he started speaking. And that someone is Tony. He is younger, but it is definitely him. That face that constantly lectured me is not something I’ll forget easily. What happens in the motel will probably remain a mystery. I certainly have no intention of returning there. There are just too many oddities surrounding it. However, I am quite sure that those portraits of the missing people mentioned in some reviews—and I saw them with my own eyes—are the ones they were looking for. For one motel, that is beyond unsettling. If I find out anything else, I will add further discoveries.

There is something evil about that place. Something beneath the surface.

by Hary Sykora

Mike Cross – Rating: 1 star
The Bad Moon Motel is a place that ruined my entire vacation. Let’s take it one by one—the photos of the place do not match reality. This establishment looks like no one has ever repaired a single thing. They will try to tell you it’s "patina"—no way, the place is literally falling apart. It has the look of a motel from the 1950s, and that was probably the last time anyone cleaned here. Right now, they are digging some horrible pit on the grounds that ruins what little the place has to offer. According to the front desk, they are digging a new septic tank. In the middle of the high season? Seriously? The parking lot and the entrance look like some abandoned urbex site. And Tony... oh, Tony. He should be mentioned in the motel description. That guy who always has white sunscreen on his nose... he is something else. He constantly lectures everyone. Don’t run around the pool. Don’t invite guests over. Don’t wander around the grounds. Shake the beach sand off before entering the resort. Repark your car closer to your room. Report every car trip to the staff. He is a total pain. And the resort doesn’t even have a fence, damn it. The receptionist is bored and absent, and most of the time, I mean that literally. Either he’s doing something else, or the night shift simply doesn't show up. You see less of him than you don't. When I was looking for him at night, I ran into a guy holding an axe. Who the hell walks around a motel at night with an axe in his hand? And you know what? Tony doesn't say a word to him—Tony, the guy who always has answers to unanswered questions. That axe-wielding guy is seriously creepy; he walks down the hallways with a damn axe in his hand, and nobody notices him, nobody deals with him. Maybe he was the caretaker, I really hope so. He gave me goosebumps. The beds are sagging and covered in stains. But that’s not the worst part. When I finally gathered the courage to lie down, someone was watching me. No, I’m not paranoid. That thing was standing there, staring at me through the window. It was past midnight, and he’s just standing there, watching, not saying a word, not moving, just staring at me. When I rushed out at him, by the time I managed to open the door, he was already leaving. The guy didn’t even have the decency to run. He just walked and disappeared into the darkness. Why the darkness? The parking lot lights are just for decoration because only about one of them actually works. The beach is okay, relatively clean. Allegedly, there are renovations underway—by that, they probably mean there’s some tools lying around here and there. When I went to check out, I noticed yellow missing persons posters on the bulletin board. That really improved my impression of the place. The worst place I have ever been. If you are considering a stay, RUN AWAY!

I don't usually do this, but I just had to write this frustration-filled review after a ruined vacation. I ignored it for a few days afterward. But that bitter aftertaste of anger stayed with me. And because I kept thinking about it, I decided to soothe my curiosity by reading other reviews. You know what? It was so strange it kept me awake. Oh, and that peeping tom made me a bit nervous even though I was already back home. That invasion of privacy doesn’t just fade away—it’s an unpleasant feeling. So, I suddenly found myself looking at the Bad Moon Motel reviews and clicking through the photos attached to them. Yeah, I know, I should have read them before the vacation, but it was a spontaneous idea. Unexpected time off, an adventure in Florida—it’s going to be great. Well, it wasn't. So here I am, sitting and reading through most of the reviews. I shouldn't have done it, because after that, I couldn't just let it go. This place could easily be compared to the Bates Motel. Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but it is a truly bizarre place. I am attaching a few reviews from others. See for yourselves.

Steve Chris – Rating: 1 star
One of the WORST places. Horrible check-in: it took an hour. A line of 10 people. The smell of decay and death like in a funeral home! A stained, hairy carpet that looks like the hide of a dead deer. The staff are either smoking or drinking alcohol in the back room—they come back sweaty and drunk. We had to change rooms twice. Bad reservation. Creaking beds. No room numbering. A basic room with a broken TV and a non-functional remote. Dirty, dilapidated rooms.

Helen Smith – Rating: 1 star
Aside from rooms that were shoeboxes and a bathroom I’d expect in a prison, everything was dirty and sticky. Behind the nightstand, we found a soda bottle and an empty bag of chips. That Tony guy was ogling me and constantly annoyed me with instructions. Who hired this guy!

Linda Louise – Rating: 1 star
If I could give 0 stars, I would. Items were stolen from my room, and the management didn't even attempt to resolve the situation. Tony was always loitering around the pool. If you want a peeping tom looking into your room, come here! And Tony, you piece of shit, go fuck yourself.

Jay Gulio – Rating: 1 star
In one word—a disaster. A pit right behind the room. When the owner accidentally showed up, he just said, "We are renovating," and then proceeded to ignore me. Twenty minutes later, he was gone. Tony is a chapter all on his own. I feel like he doesn’t even work there. The front desk is non-existent; they don't care. I never saw anyone at the front desk in the evening! But I did see the guy with the axe. What is he renovating with an axe at night?

Ethan Shepard – Rating: 1 star
This motel gives me goosebumps. Neglected, dirty... a front for some shady business? I don’t know, and I’m definitely not going to find out. A deep pit near the parking lot. Supposedly a new septic tank—at this rate, another thirty years and this place will be a three-star joint, if it doesn't fall down sooner. Someone was watching me through the window. I wanted to ignore him, but he stood there for easily twenty minutes. The curtain doesn’t cover the whole window. When I banged on the glass, he didn’t even flinch until he heard the door handle click, then he slowly walked away. In the bed, you can feel the springs right through the mattress.

Adam Williams – Rating: 1 star
Room was a bloody joke, an absolute pigsty. Some random bloke with an axe was wandering down the hallway at night. Ghost town at the front desk? Even when someone was there, they couldn’t give a toss, didn’t even bother to look up. Decorating the place with missing persons posters from around here... is that meant to be some sick gag? One day I walk past a room with no number to grab some brekkie, and the next day I see it’s freshly bricked up. Didn't seem right to me at all. Apparently, the owner wants a massive suite... I don't get it, and honestly, I don't want to. I’ve had a gutful. Never again.

Clare Brown – Rating: 1 star
The company booked this place for us. That’s probably how much they care about us. I met up with a colleague from the marketing department. Sitting by the pool and chatting was probably the only safe activity in that place. Tony said there were alligators. In the morning, however, came a shock. My colleague was gone—apparently, he checked out during the night and left. But his car is still parked in front of his room. His things were left there too. The front desk just shrugs their shoulders. He hasn't contacted the company since the stay either. A bad place.

As it probably won't surprise you after reading the reviews, I was even more confused about what kind of motel this is. Don't say I didn't warn you. Now I want to find out more. When I looked for information about it, it was beyond brief. One website literally looked like a Windows 95 template. The resort and motel were built in the late 1950s. Over time, it lost its reputation and popularity. Gradually, it became a cheap option for travelers and vacationers. But that pit... do they want to dig their way to hell? The next step was obvious—find images of the place. Good old Google will help, and the roadside motel looked almost unbelievable, appearing exactly the same. As if time had truly stopped there. Overgrown palm trees, a cracked parking lot, a shabby appearance. Two years ago, they were digging a pit near the parking lot. So, I tried satellite imagery. It wasn't as if I had many other places to look.

The pit moves. You don't believe it? I didn't believe it either. One time it's behind the motel, another time by the beach, another time under the palm trees, then right behind the rooms. They must have dug up that entire property easily twice over the years. Why do they need such large pits? And another interesting fact—the size of the rooms doesn’t match the layout of the motel. Some rooms must have been downsized. Certain spaces on the map weren't actually there in reality. At least, they weren't there when I spent my vacation there. Why downsize your own business? Why make certain spaces disappear?

Later I returned to it; there is really very little information on the internet. The Bad Moon Motel doesn't even try to have promotional materials or a description of its history. Advertising is probably a foreign word to them. But I did find something after all. An abandoned thread on Reddit, and in it, a link to a YouTube report by PLG 9, a small local TV station. It probably doesn't even exist anymore. What mattered was what was in it. Detective Mill standing in front of the Bad Moon Motel. He is sweating and trying to dry his forehead with a handkerchief. The reporter began her segment: "The police are continuing their search for a twenty-year-old man who disappeared over the weekend. He was last seen traveling toward the Bad Moon Motel. However, he did not check in here. We turn the microphone over to Detective Mill." He quickly smoothed his shirt and continued. "According to witnesses, the young man was moving toward the Bad Moon Motel. We are searching the area systematically. So far, without results. We appeal to the citizens for cooperation. Do not worry. However, this is not the first time we are dealing with a similar case." The reporter smiles, and a shot of a photograph of twenty-year-old Joe Martinez appears.

When I was playing it for about the third time, I noticed that someone was standing behind the detective before he started speaking. And that someone is Tony. He is younger, but it is definitely him. That face that constantly lectured me is not something I’ll forget easily. What happens in the motel will probably remain a mystery. I certainly have no intention of returning there. There are just too many oddities surrounding it. However, I am quite sure that those portraits of the missing people mentioned in some reviews—and I saw them with my own eyes—are the ones they were looking for. For one motel, that is beyond unsettling. If I find out anything else, I will add further discoveries.

There is something evil about that place. Something beneath the surface.

by Hary Sykora

Diary of Aron Hernandez, 24

Found in his apartment in Tribeca, New York.

The Big Apple is still a city full of dreams. Compared to Arizona, where I grew up and spent my childhood, New York is its complete opposite. I came here to prove I’m the best. It didn’t take long to realize this place is like an aquarium full of piranhas. A city that never sleeps, where everyone’s chasing something. The sky is full of lights. Back home, I used to watch the stars. Here, that’s almost impossible.

In college, my roommate taught me two things: how to fall in love with urbex, and how to take photos. It’s a small pocket of calm in the chaos of the big city. Now I’m an urban planner—still weird to say out loud. I finished school; now it’s high time to show what I can do. First apartment, first job. I’ll show New York just how damn good I am at what I do.

Dreams are nice. But reality hits you like a speeding train. After years in cramped dorm rooms, I was excited for my own place. My own space. Well, my Tribeca apartment is typical for this city. When you walk in, you’re already in the kitchen—a stove and two cabinets. Then there’s what they call a living room, somehow even smaller than our dorm room. But hey, it came with a free couch. That’s a win when you’re just starting out. What I mistook for a closet turned out to be the bathroom. I won’t lie—it’s a bit claustrophobic. The sink is in the living room. Yeah, really. Then there’s the bedroom, not much bigger than the previous space. To make sure it doesn’t feel too roomy, there’s a built‑in wardrobe—“walk‑in closet,” they claim—shrinking it to the bare minimum. Small windows face a construction site. A skyscraper right behind my windows. Only a narrow alley separates us; otherwise, I could probably reach out and touch the glass panels of that giant.

My job has a fancy name: Junior Real Estate Analyst. The company’s office is in a good location. The people who hired me wore suits more expensive than my monthly rent—at least. I got one big perk: I can work from home. Maybe they didn’t want me ruining their elegance. I’m on the phone and making spreadsheets. So much for my dream of planning big projects.

I went to scout some abandoned buildings. Pretty solid urbex. Until they called me, saying they urgently needed a comparison in a report. Market overview and potential prices. So I managed to take maybe two photos. And then, hurry back into the human traffic jam. No money for a taxi. This city is literally a flood of people.

I need to find some window seals, or I’ll never sleep. Cars constantly humming, horns blaring. The whole place pulses with life. What I’d give for Arizona silence. Or a bathroom—a nice, big bathroom.

Another day, another spreadsheet. Either I’m spinning in my chair, or drowning in an endless stream of data. That building across from me—I watch it sometimes. It’s a quiet point in all the surrounding noise.

Fascinating thing: that skyscraper is the Bismarc Tower. A big company, Bismarck Corporation, started building it after the crypto boom. Construction dragged on. Eventually, they labeled it unprofitable. Demolishing it would cost more than freezing it in place. Meaning: leave it as it is. In the urbex community, it’s known as the Death Tower. They’re dramatic like that. It’s condemned. Dangerous, so no one goes inside. Would make amazing photos. Several people died exploring those abandoned floors. Accidents happen.

I watched it again today. People walk past without even looking up. As if it doesn’t exist for them. How long does it take to start ignoring a fifty‑story building? I don’t get the locals.

I saw someone in there. A shadow standing by a window, watching me. Yeah—actually watching me. How did he even know I was looking? He was above the thirteenth floor. Not that I can estimate floors that well—someone spray‑painted a giant number thirteen across the windows. That shadow pressed against the glass. Maybe he was taking pictures of me?

“Police cars showed up today. They were taking away a homeless guy. So someone does notice the building after all. Worse is that later that evening, he was back. Not the homeless guy—the one who was watching me. Maybe he lives there.”

I’m watching the floors again. There are two of them now. Each on a different level, standing there for hours. Pressing against the windows, shifting. What the hell is happening in there?

Today I packed my gear, lenses included. When I crossed the alley, they were putting up barricades. Police were removing another dead body. Before they zipped the bag, I saw his eyes—no pupils. A cop gave me a long look.

I finally managed to get inside. Climbed to the seventh floor. Homeless people don’t go higher than the fourth—first time I saw that. I wanted to climb all the way to the fiftieth floor. Get some incredible shots from the open structure. Instead, work called again. Back to spreadsheets.

Rarely, I had to go to HQ for my personal evaluation. When I was almost home, the police car was there again. One of them stopped me right away. Introduced himself as Detective Kling. Hinted that the building isn’t safe. “It’s not for the living,” he said. Maybe he wanted to scare me. I don’t know. That evening I watched the tower again. More shadows watching me, some completely still. It lasted for hours until sunrise. I must’ve dozed off. I didn’t see them leave.

Nobody pays attention to that building. Even people looking out their windows seem to look right through it. They just don’t care. Well, this isn’t Arizona. I get it.

I was there. Reached the thirteenth floor. My window isn’t anything special. When I sit behind my laptop, you can barely see me. So why do they stare so intensely? A few spray cans on the ground. Strange—nothing else. I found a smashed GoPro. No card inside. Completely destroyed. Weird—I thought those things were supposed to be tough.

I couldn’t climb higher; a water pipe burst in the building. I had to check my apartment. I was already on the thirtieth floor. Back to my kingdom with no water. With the size of my bathroom, they could’ve used a drinking straw instead of pipes. Damn it.

I watched again. Didn’t listen to anything, just sat quietly and stared into those windows. The shadows pressing against the glass like they were trying to push the panels out. It’s a strangely hypnotic feeling. Kind of like those green‑leaf brownies I ate in the dorm. Better not think about that.

That was insane. I climbed all the way to the 44th floor. But on the way, I ran into some corpses. Their eyes were white, no pupils. Some were basically just clothes and bones. I barely kept myself from running. I didn’t expect that. Seeing a corpse. Guess I can cross that off my New York bucket list. The view is nice. You can’t really see my window even from higher floors. When I pressed against the dusty glass, I saw my apartment even worse.

And that wasn’t all. I found a ghost floor. Yeah—a ghost floor. Builders sometimes use them. Never thought I’d see one in person. It’s a low floor, no higher than a soda can. The staircase goes right through it. Obviously no one can fit inside. It’s between floors 43 and 44. Which makes no sense. There should be a 45 above it—that’s how you avoid the unlucky number. By the stairs, there’s a crooked stencil. Someone spray‑painted “44” quickly, just to get it over with. Paint dripping down. I guess once construction stopped, they didn’t care about precision anymore. But the number is wrong. I need to photograph it properly. Then study it.

I didn’t even read my emails. Needed a break. Watching that skyscraper gives me a bit of peace. I don’t even know when I started watching it. Sometime today—no idea when.

Finally, some relaxation. I’m packed and excited. I want to see that view of the city. Escape the pulsing streets. It was strange—even when I stood on the street staring at the building, people walked past me like there was nothing to see. True, I’ve seen bigger extremes here. And people who look completely insane. That’s New York.

Shit, what the hell was that. What just happened. I was there. In that mislabeled floor. Floor 44 above the ghost floor. Even more bodies on the way. That floor is seriously messed up. I couldn’t take a picture. It terrified me. Fine—I admit it. I was scared out of my mind.

What’s actually there? A message from the graffiti writer. On the partition wall behind the concrete reception desk. A wall covered in exclamation marks. Empty spray cans everywhere. Above the passage where no one ever installed a door, there’s a sign: “I was here.” The handwriting, the style—almost identical to the number thirteen on the lower floor. Just rushed. Chaotic exclamation marks everywhere. I felt an urge to go deeper into the building.

But then I saw him. The graffiti guy was kneeling there. Facing the cracked glass. Still holding one of the spray cans. He looked mummified. I didn’t go near him. The hands on my watch were spinning fast—way too fast. I used that moment of shock and ran. I didn’t stop until the twentieth floor. Far enough.

Why was he there? Why those two floors? No graffiti anywhere else. What happened there?

In the evening, I ran into Detective Kling. He was standing there, watching the building. “They do drugs in there. You don’t want to get mixed up with people like that,” he said without even looking at me. I waited until he got into his car. I wanted to go inside. No—better wait. What if he comes back and ruins everything. I’ll reach the fiftieth floor. I deserve that view. No one will take it from me. Not the detective. Not the people pretending to be shadows. I guess New York is getting to me more than I thought.

Here goes. I can’t wait to show the local urbexers who’s the best here. Tremble, Bismarc Tower. I’m going to the top.

Following the disappearance of Aron Hernandez, his final message was recovered from his voicemail. It recorded:

“Now I understand…” static “…I was here.”

By Hary Sykora

Diary of Aron Hernandez, 24

Found in his apartment in Tribeca, New York.

The Big Apple is still a city full of dreams. Compared to Arizona, where I grew up and spent my childhood, New York is its complete opposite. I came here to prove I’m the best. It didn’t take long to realize this place is like an aquarium full of piranhas. A city that never sleeps, where everyone’s chasing something. The sky is full of lights. Back home, I used to watch the stars. Here, that’s almost impossible.

In college, my roommate taught me two things: how to fall in love with urbex, and how to take photos. It’s a small pocket of calm in the chaos of the big city. Now I’m an urban planner—still weird to say out loud. I finished school; now it’s high time to show what I can do. First apartment, first job. I’ll show New York just how damn good I am at what I do.

Dreams are nice. But reality hits you like a speeding train. After years in cramped dorm rooms, I was excited for my own place. My own space. Well, my Tribeca apartment is typical for this city. When you walk in, you’re already in the kitchen—a stove and two cabinets. Then there’s what they call a living room, somehow even smaller than our dorm room. But hey, it came with a free couch. That’s a win when you’re just starting out. What I mistook for a closet turned out to be the bathroom. I won’t lie—it’s a bit claustrophobic. The sink is in the living room. Yeah, really. Then there’s the bedroom, not much bigger than the previous space. To make sure it doesn’t feel too roomy, there’s a built‑in wardrobe—“walk‑in closet,” they claim—shrinking it to the bare minimum. Small windows face a construction site. A skyscraper right behind my windows. Only a narrow alley separates us; otherwise, I could probably reach out and touch the glass panels of that giant.

My job has a fancy name: Junior Real Estate Analyst. The company’s office is in a good location. The people who hired me wore suits more expensive than my monthly rent—at least. I got one big perk: I can work from home. Maybe they didn’t want me ruining their elegance. I’m on the phone and making spreadsheets. So much for my dream of planning big projects.

I went to scout some abandoned buildings. Pretty solid urbex. Until they called me, saying they urgently needed a comparison in a report. Market overview and potential prices. So I managed to take maybe two photos. And then, hurry back into the human traffic jam. No money for a taxi. This city is literally a flood of people.

I need to find some window seals, or I’ll never sleep. Cars constantly humming, horns blaring. The whole place pulses with life. What I’d give for Arizona silence. Or a bathroom—a nice, big bathroom.

Another day, another spreadsheet. Either I’m spinning in my chair, or drowning in an endless stream of data. That building across from me—I watch it sometimes. It’s a quiet point in all the surrounding noise.

Fascinating thing: that skyscraper is the Bismarc Tower. A big company, Bismarck Corporation, started building it after the crypto boom. Construction dragged on. Eventually, they labeled it unprofitable. Demolishing it would cost more than freezing it in place. Meaning: leave it as it is. In the urbex community, it’s known as the Death Tower. They’re dramatic like that. It’s condemned. Dangerous, so no one goes inside. Would make amazing photos. Several people died exploring those abandoned floors. Accidents happen.

I watched it again today. People walk past without even looking up. As if it doesn’t exist for them. How long does it take to start ignoring a fifty‑story building? I don’t get the locals.

I saw someone in there. A shadow standing by a window, watching me. Yeah—actually watching me. How did he even know I was looking? He was above the thirteenth floor. Not that I can estimate floors that well—someone spray‑painted a giant number thirteen across the windows. That shadow pressed against the glass. Maybe he was taking pictures of me?

“Police cars showed up today. They were taking away a homeless guy. So someone does notice the building after all. Worse is that later that evening, he was back. Not the homeless guy—the one who was watching me. Maybe he lives there.”

I’m watching the floors again. There are two of them now. Each on a different level, standing there for hours. Pressing against the windows, shifting. What the hell is happening in there?

Today I packed my gear, lenses included. When I crossed the alley, they were putting up barricades. Police were removing another dead body. Before they zipped the bag, I saw his eyes—no pupils. A cop gave me a long look.

I finally managed to get inside. Climbed to the seventh floor. Homeless people don’t go higher than the fourth—first time I saw that. I wanted to climb all the way to the fiftieth floor. Get some incredible shots from the open structure. Instead, work called again. Back to spreadsheets.

Rarely, I had to go to HQ for my personal evaluation. When I was almost home, the police car was there again. One of them stopped me right away. Introduced himself as Detective Kling. Hinted that the building isn’t safe. “It’s not for the living,” he said. Maybe he wanted to scare me. I don’t know. That evening I watched the tower again. More shadows watching me, some completely still. It lasted for hours until sunrise. I must’ve dozed off. I didn’t see them leave.

Nobody pays attention to that building. Even people looking out their windows seem to look right through it. They just don’t care. Well, this isn’t Arizona. I get it.

I was there. Reached the thirteenth floor. My window isn’t anything special. When I sit behind my laptop, you can barely see me. So why do they stare so intensely? A few spray cans on the ground. Strange—nothing else. I found a smashed GoPro. No card inside. Completely destroyed. Weird—I thought those things were supposed to be tough.

I couldn’t climb higher; a water pipe burst in the building. I had to check my apartment. I was already on the thirtieth floor. Back to my kingdom with no water. With the size of my bathroom, they could’ve used a drinking straw instead of pipes. Damn it.

I watched again. Didn’t listen to anything, just sat quietly and stared into those windows. The shadows pressing against the glass like they were trying to push the panels out. It’s a strangely hypnotic feeling. Kind of like those green‑leaf brownies I ate in the dorm. Better not think about that.

That was insane. I climbed all the way to the 44th floor. But on the way, I ran into some corpses. Their eyes were white, no pupils. Some were basically just clothes and bones. I barely kept myself from running. I didn’t expect that. Seeing a corpse. Guess I can cross that off my New York bucket list. The view is nice. You can’t really see my window even from higher floors. When I pressed against the dusty glass, I saw my apartment even worse.

And that wasn’t all. I found a ghost floor. Yeah—a ghost floor. Builders sometimes use them. Never thought I’d see one in person. It’s a low floor, no higher than a soda can. The staircase goes right through it. Obviously no one can fit inside. It’s between floors 43 and 44. Which makes no sense. There should be a 45 above it—that’s how you avoid the unlucky number. By the stairs, there’s a crooked stencil. Someone spray‑painted “44” quickly, just to get it over with. Paint dripping down. I guess once construction stopped, they didn’t care about precision anymore. But the number is wrong. I need to photograph it properly. Then study it.

I didn’t even read my emails. Needed a break. Watching that skyscraper gives me a bit of peace. I don’t even know when I started watching it. Sometime today—no idea when.

Finally, some relaxation. I’m packed and excited. I want to see that view of the city. Escape the pulsing streets. It was strange—even when I stood on the street staring at the building, people walked past me like there was nothing to see. True, I’ve seen bigger extremes here. And people who look completely insane. That’s New York.

Shit, what the hell was that. What just happened. I was there. In that mislabeled floor. Floor 44 above the ghost floor. Even more bodies on the way. That floor is seriously messed up. I couldn’t take a picture. It terrified me. Fine—I admit it. I was scared out of my mind.

What’s actually there? A message from the graffiti writer. On the partition wall behind the concrete reception desk. A wall covered in exclamation marks. Empty spray cans everywhere. Above the passage where no one ever installed a door, there’s a sign: “I was here.” The handwriting, the style—almost identical to the number thirteen on the lower floor. Just rushed. Chaotic exclamation marks everywhere. I felt an urge to go deeper into the building.

But then I saw him. The graffiti guy was kneeling there. Facing the cracked glass. Still holding one of the spray cans. He looked mummified. I didn’t go near him. The hands on my watch were spinning fast—way too fast. I used that moment of shock and ran. I didn’t stop until the twentieth floor. Far enough.

Why was he there? Why those two floors? No graffiti anywhere else. What happened there?

In the evening, I ran into Detective Kling. He was standing there, watching the building. “They do drugs in there. You don’t want to get mixed up with people like that,” he said without even looking at me. I waited until he got into his car. I wanted to go inside. No—better wait. What if he comes back and ruins everything. I’ll reach the fiftieth floor. I deserve that view. No one will take it from me. Not the detective. Not the people pretending to be shadows. I guess New York is getting to me more than I thought.

Here goes. I can’t wait to show the local urbexers who’s the best here. Tremble, Bismarc Tower. I’m going to the top.

Following the disappearance of Aron Hernandez, his final message was recovered from his voicemail. It recorded:

“Now I understand…” static “…I was here.”

By Hary Sykora

Howdy-do.

My friend here at the dorm showed me that news report. Said it was just an unlucky chain of events up at Miner End Pass. I bet folks heard about that place for the very first time. We know how to drive in the fog, but y’all… them other folks ain’t got the sense God gave a goose. Why does it rile me up so bad? I was there. I saw what happened. It sure as hell wasn’t chance and it damn sure wasn’t an accident. I’m writing this down because if it helps even one more traveler survive that pass, then it’s worth telling.

It started when I loaded up my old ’80s Ford F-100. My baby. I had a far piece to go. Back home in Kentucky things are quiet, but out here on the Virginia coast it’s all talk and nonsense. Ain’t worth jawin’ about. And to top it off, nobody in Norfolk even roots for the Bengals. The road was normal at first. I was headed for another semester at Norfolk State University.

If you’re scared in the Appalachian Mountains, good. You should be. The fog was thick as milk. The road dulls your senses real quick. You gotta stay sharp — the mountains watch you. I had a little time to spare and my back was hollerin’ with pain, so I turned off toward Blackwater. That town was losing its fight with nature — collapsing houses, stairways leading nowhere. Finally I spotted a parking lot. Miner Café, salt of America. A few pickups stood around; the town still had a little life left in it. A small mining church sat further down the road, white paint peeling and moss creeping up its sides. The cross over the door was scratched up, soot taking the shine off its bright white coat.

I stepped into Miner Café and ran right into that preacher. He was walking table to table, laying down flyers. Yellow flyers, whole armful of them.
“Howdy-do, you eaten?” the owner greeted me.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a bear,” I told her. A moment later I was sitting at a table with a view of the church, scarfing down the first real meal I’d had all trip. And then the preacher came over. Stood quiet beside me. I looked up at him.
“Here you go, my child,” he said, setting a flyer down next to my Cincinnati Bengals cap. I picked it up — typed on an old typewriter.
“Old school,” I nodded in thanks. He pinned another flyer to the bulletin board, left the rest on the counter, sipped his coffee, and walked out.

When I got back in my truck, a few miles down the road I saw the sign: Miner End Pass. According to the markers, that road could save me a whole hour. When the mountains give you a shortcut, you take it.

One thing the report didn’t lie about — the fog was so thick you could slice it. The pass road is narrow and climbs steep. Those clouds… something strange hung in the air. First car I met was about a mile from the top. A Chevy Camaro passed me. Driver was dumb as a box of rocks. He went tearing off.

Then something I’d never seen appeared out of the fog. A line of cars. Up here? In a half-forgotten mountain pass? An orange electronic sign blinked into the fog. Blink, clack, blink. Folks in their cars fidgeted, drummed fingers on steering wheels. “This is gonna take a while,” we all thought. The fog changed meanwhile — heavy, dense, thick as buttermilk. Seeing one car ahead was a luxury. A state trooper on a motorcycle rolled past. If he didn’t have his blue lights on, he’d be invisible in that mess.

We sat there over an hour. People shut off engines, some stepped out to stretch. So a pile-up? Bullshit. Suddenly my radio died completely. And then the engine cut out — never happened before. My old F-100 never let me down. Everything mechanical worked, starter turned, but the damn engine refused to catch. I was on edge. Troopers walked between cars handing out bottled water and snack bars, but they had assault rifles slung across their backs. Sent a cold shiver straight down my spine.

Another hour passed, maybe more, hard to tell. My phone died too. Battery drained like a mosquito sucking blood. Everything with a battery died fast — except that blinking orange sign. Blink, clack, blink. I pulled my flannel and army parka tighter. It got cold. Weather up here is wild as a bucking horse. I felt the preacher’s flyer in my pocket. Perfect time for reading. A little distraction in the hard mountains.

I stared at that paper and my stomach flipped. That man knew. He wrote it before the fog even fell. My dread grew. Troopers walked the line again. In my whole life I’d never seen state police and the sheriff’s office working together on anything. Some drivers were yelling at them hysterically; the lawmen already had their guns in hand. That pass was hell’s own debt.

And then it happened. No tall tale. The smell was the key. The tension. The air filled with the scent of tobacco — fresh, strong tobacco. Made no sense in that cold. It was a bad omen. I didn’t doubt it for a second. I grabbed the pistol from my glove box. Dad laughed at me, said it was just a city toy not fit for the mountains. Thank God I had it.

Something shot past. The pressure hit me like a semi missing you by an inch. Screaming — awful, inhuman screaming. Chaos. Couldn’t see a foot in front of me. Someone ran past my door in panic. I had to lean over the dashboard just to see the end of my truck. The side of my F-100 was smeared with something. Blood. Bright, fresh blood. Then something scraped the other side of the pickup, screeching like steel hooks instead of fingers. You can imagine my language. The car to my right got shoved like it was made of paper. Its body shredded. For a heartbeat the fog parted — the sedan wasn’t the only one ripped open. Interior soaked in blood, roof lifted like the lid of an old chest. Lone gunshots cracked. Fog swirled with whatever was flying through it.

Believe me or don’t. Your loss. If folks wanna swallow that news talk, they can just let the mountains take 'em. Something huge was rocking cars on purpose now. Screams of pain and pure terror everywhere. Up ahead, gunfire went wild. I gripped my pistol and slid down under the dash. Lower makes you a harder target. The shooting grew louder, more desperate. Not just police rifles — they were firing one shot after another in sheer panic. Blink, clack, blink.

Then she was there. A fog-shape. Flying through the air like gravity didn’t apply. Her claws screeched across metal. Horrible, ear-tearing sound. Deep gouges left behind. My old thick-steel truck held together, but the dread in me was screaming. Those things had sharp teeth, two long fangs like snakes. Their hair rustled like dry autumn leaves. Smelled of tobacco. Later I thought the hair detail was nonsense — but in the moment it was real. Their faces were once beautiful, but when they flew past windows they cackled and shrieked. Rage twisted their eyes into sharp, predatory shapes. They bared their teeth. Narrow faces full of animal hunger. Anyone who panicked and ran was an instant snack.

All the police gunfire up front suddenly stopped. Those men screamed and cried out. The creatures didn’t leave. They prowled like a pack of starving wolves. I flicked the safety off. Dumped a box of ammo onto the floor so I could reload fast. I wasn’t dying because my hands shook. I wasn’t selling my hide cheap. I braced myself hard. Those monsters were feeding on us, hunting us like penned livestock.

I braced my foot against the pedals. A violent jolt rocked my truck, but it landed back on its wheels. Then one of them latched onto my hood. Wanted to break through the windshield. Wanted a quick snack. She lunged, claws tapping and scraping across the steel.
“I’m from Kentucky — we eat critters like you for breakfast!” I yelled.
“Who dey, who dey, who dey think gonna beat dem Bengals?!”
“Nobody!”

Yeah, I admit, adrenaline made me take it personal. No shame in that. I aimed through the glass and fired. Then fired again. And again. Shot after shot. The worst fear slipped off me a little. Maybe I hurt her, slowed her down, or maybe she just got spooked by the muzzle flashes. Before she could smash the glass and dive inside, that cursed fog finally started to thin out, pulling back into the woods.

The pistol clicked on empty. I pulled the trigger a few more times before I even realized it. The fog was gone. Things get rough in these mountains. That’s why I’m writing this.

I tried the ignition, and my Ford fired right up on the first turn. I threw it in gear and rolled slowly through the carnage. Dodging the shredded wrecks of modern cars. Claw marks stopping just inches before my windshield kept me on high alert. One surviving, shell-shocked trooper by the roadside just waved his hand helplessly, telling us to keep moving. A totally demolished Camaro sat among the trees. Dead troopers lay around the blinking orange sign. Spent shell casings gleamed in the thick blood, reflecting off my wheels. I drove down out of the pass.

Now I’m sitting in my dorm. I need a whole new windshield and the paint on my truck is scraped down to the bare metal, but I’m breathing. Watch out for that fog. I still had a far piece to go before I finally made it here to Norfolk.

Flesh and blood feed her. Beware, traveler, lest she find you in the mountains. Fog thick when it falls. Cold and tobacco scent. Something hangs in the air. Time to fear!

Who Dey and stay safe,
Sadie“

by Hary Sykora

Howdy-do.

My friend here at the dorm showed me that news report. Said it was just an unlucky chain of events up at Miner End Pass. I bet folks heard about that place for the very first time. We know how to drive in the fog, but y’all… them other folks ain’t got the sense God gave a goose. Why does it rile me up so bad? I was there. I saw what happened. It sure as hell wasn’t chance and it damn sure wasn’t an accident. I’m writing this down because if it helps even one more traveler survive that pass, then it’s worth telling.

It started when I loaded up my old ’80s Ford F-100. My baby. I had a far piece to go. Back home in Kentucky things are quiet, but out here on the Virginia coast it’s all talk and nonsense. Ain’t worth jawin’ about. And to top it off, nobody in Norfolk even roots for the Bengals. The road was normal at first. I was headed for another semester at Norfolk State University.

If you’re scared in the Appalachian Mountains, good. You should be. The fog was thick as milk. The road dulls your senses real quick. You gotta stay sharp — the mountains watch you. I had a little time to spare and my back was hollerin’ with pain, so I turned off toward Blackwater. That town was losing its fight with nature — collapsing houses, stairways leading nowhere. Finally I spotted a parking lot. Miner Café, salt of America. A few pickups stood around; the town still had a little life left in it. A small mining church sat further down the road, white paint peeling and moss creeping up its sides. The cross over the door was scratched up, soot taking the shine off its bright white coat.

I stepped into Miner Café and ran right into that preacher. He was walking table to table, laying down flyers. Yellow flyers, whole armful of them.
“Howdy-do, you eaten?” the owner greeted me.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a bear,” I told her. A moment later I was sitting at a table with a view of the church, scarfing down the first real meal I’d had all trip. And then the preacher came over. Stood quiet beside me. I looked up at him.
“Here you go, my child,” he said, setting a flyer down next to my Cincinnati Bengals cap. I picked it up — typed on an old typewriter.
“Old school,” I nodded in thanks. He pinned another flyer to the bulletin board, left the rest on the counter, sipped his coffee, and walked out.

When I got back in my truck, a few miles down the road I saw the sign: Miner End Pass. According to the markers, that road could save me a whole hour. When the mountains give you a shortcut, you take it.

One thing the report didn’t lie about — the fog was so thick you could slice it. The pass road is narrow and climbs steep. Those clouds… something strange hung in the air. First car I met was about a mile from the top. A Chevy Camaro passed me. Driver was dumb as a box of rocks. He went tearing off.

Then something I’d never seen appeared out of the fog. A line of cars. Up here? In a half-forgotten mountain pass? An orange electronic sign blinked into the fog. Blink, clack, blink. Folks in their cars fidgeted, drummed fingers on steering wheels. “This is gonna take a while,” we all thought. The fog changed meanwhile — heavy, dense, thick as buttermilk. Seeing one car ahead was a luxury. A state trooper on a motorcycle rolled past. If he didn’t have his blue lights on, he’d be invisible in that mess.

We sat there over an hour. People shut off engines, some stepped out to stretch. So a pile-up? Bullshit. Suddenly my radio died completely. And then the engine cut out — never happened before. My old F-100 never let me down. Everything mechanical worked, starter turned, but the damn engine refused to catch. I was on edge. Troopers walked between cars handing out bottled water and snack bars, but they had assault rifles slung across their backs. Sent a cold shiver straight down my spine.

Another hour passed, maybe more, hard to tell. My phone died too. Battery drained like a mosquito sucking blood. Everything with a battery died fast — except that blinking orange sign. Blink, clack, blink. I pulled my flannel and army parka tighter. It got cold. Weather up here is wild as a bucking horse. I felt the preacher’s flyer in my pocket. Perfect time for reading. A little distraction in the hard mountains.

>

I stared at that paper and my stomach flipped. That man knew. He wrote it before the fog even fell. My dread grew. Troopers walked the line again. In my whole life I’d never seen state police and the sheriff’s office working together on anything. Some drivers were yelling at them hysterically; the lawmen already had their guns in hand. That pass was hell’s own debt.

And then it happened. No tall tale. The smell was the key. The tension. The air filled with the scent of tobacco — fresh, strong tobacco. Made no sense in that cold. It was a bad omen. I didn’t doubt it for a second. I grabbed the pistol from my glove box. Dad laughed at me, said it was just a city toy not fit for the mountains. Thank God I had it.

Something shot past. The pressure hit me like a semi missing you by an inch. Screaming — awful, inhuman screaming. Chaos. Couldn’t see a foot in front of me. Someone ran past my door in panic. I had to lean over the dashboard just to see the end of my truck. The side of my F-100 was smeared with something. Blood. Bright, fresh blood. Then something scraped the other side of the pickup, screeching like steel hooks instead of fingers. You can imagine my language. The car to my right got shoved like it was made of paper. Its body shredded. For a heartbeat the fog parted — the sedan wasn’t the only one ripped open. Interior soaked in blood, roof lifted like the lid of an old chest. Lone gunshots cracked. Fog swirled with whatever was flying through it.

Believe me or don’t. Your loss. If folks wanna swallow that news talk, they can just let the mountains take 'em. Something huge was rocking cars on purpose now. Screams of pain and pure terror everywhere. Up ahead, gunfire went wild. I gripped my pistol and slid down under the dash. Lower makes you a harder target. The shooting grew louder, more desperate. Not just police rifles — they were firing one shot after another in sheer panic. Blink, clack, blink.

Then she was there. A fog-shape. Flying through the air like gravity didn’t apply. Her claws screeched across metal. Horrible, ear-tearing sound. Deep gouges left behind. My old thick-steel truck held together, but the dread in me was screaming. Those things had sharp teeth, two long fangs like snakes. Their hair rustled like dry autumn leaves. Smelled of tobacco. Later I thought the hair detail was nonsense — but in the moment it was real. Their faces were once beautiful, but when they flew past windows they cackled and shrieked. Rage twisted their eyes into sharp, predatory shapes. They bared their teeth. Narrow faces full of animal hunger. Anyone who panicked and ran was an instant snack.

All the police gunfire up front suddenly stopped. Those men screamed and cried out. The creatures didn’t leave. They prowled like a pack of starving wolves. I flicked the safety off. Dumped a box of ammo onto the floor so I could reload fast. I wasn’t dying because my hands shook. I wasn’t selling my hide cheap. I braced myself hard. Those monsters were feeding on us, hunting us like penned livestock.

I braced my foot against the pedals. A violent jolt rocked my truck, but it landed back on its wheels. Then one of them latched onto my hood. Wanted to break through the windshield. Wanted a quick snack. She lunged, claws tapping and scraping across the steel.
“I’m from Kentucky — we eat critters like you for breakfast!” I yelled.
“Who dey, who dey, who dey think gonna beat dem Bengals?!”
“Nobody!”

Yeah, I admit, adrenaline made me take it personal. No shame in that. I aimed through the glass and fired. Then fired again. And again. Shot after shot. The worst fear slipped off me a little. Maybe I hurt her, slowed her down, or maybe she just got spooked by the muzzle flashes. Before she could smash the glass and dive inside, that cursed fog finally started to thin out, pulling back into the woods.

The pistol clicked on empty. I pulled the trigger a few more times before I even realized it. The fog was gone. Things get rough in these mountains. That’s why I’m writing this.

I tried the ignition, and my Ford fired right up on the first turn. I threw it in gear and rolled slowly through the carnage. Dodging the shredded wrecks of modern cars. Claw marks stopping just inches before my windshield kept me on high alert. One surviving, shell-shocked trooper by the roadside just waved his hand helplessly, telling us to keep moving. A totally demolished Camaro sat among the trees. Dead troopers lay around the blinking orange sign. Spent shell casings gleamed in the thick blood, reflecting off my wheels. I drove down out of the pass.

Now I’m sitting in my dorm. I need a whole new windshield and the paint on my truck is scraped down to the bare metal, but I’m breathing. Watch out for that fog. I still had a far piece to go before I finally made it here to Norfolk.

Flesh and blood feed her. Beware, traveler, lest she find you in the mountains. Fog thick when it falls. Cold and tobacco scent. Something hangs in the air. Time to fear!

Who Dey and stay safe,
Sadie“

by Hary Sykora

You can take what I’m about to tell you as an old man’s tall tale if you want. These local roads are empty, and there’s no one the night shift hasn’t worn down at least once. This happened to me my very first year here at Eastend Fort. I used to live in a smaller town — maybe you’ve heard of it. Probably not. Luna, a tiny place like… well, never mind. Stop me if I ramble too much, alright? Good, glad we understand each other, rookie. Careful so your hat doesn’t fall off. Ha ha, I’m just messing with you. Anyway, here’s how it went.

We were doing a routine patrol on County Road 303. The exit from the highway, cutting through fields all the way to town. Something you’ll definitely be doing too. So, it was autumn. You can see all the way to the horizon, and everything is dead quiet. But the night shift… that’s different. Pitch black, like you’re driving through a tunnel. The only thing you see is your own headlights. If you’re lucky, the moon helps a little. If you never feel weird out there even once, I’ll congratulate you. We had just finished writing a report and headed out for the next patrol. We got onto CR 303 and there was no one. After about fifteen minutes of driving—

I see it. A sedan, light blue, I think Ocean Blue. A Chevrolet Malibu, twenty years old, maybe more. And the driver— well, I spoiled that too early, pretend you don’t know who’s behind the wheel. We’re watching the car and it’s swaying like a snake. It didn’t leave the lane, but it barely stayed on the road. I waited a moment to see if the driver would straighten out. Maybe they just slipped. Maybe they were trying to get control back. Nothing like that. Still weaving like a rabbit in headlights. We turned on the light bar so they’d notice us. No reaction. So I hit the siren. You couldn’t miss it. The car suddenly sped up. Then just as suddenly slammed the brakes. Pulled over, crooked. I sighed, nodded at my partner, and got out. Walked up slowly, hand resting on the side of her car. Just in case she tried something.

I shine my flashlight and look at the girl. She couldn’t have been more than twenty‑two. Something like that. She’s sitting there like she doesn’t even see me. Suddenly she moves — fast — and shuts off the engine. I keep one hand on my gun, the other holding the light. You know what she did? Nothing. Just leaned back again and stared forward.

“Ma’am, do you know why we stopped you?”

She tilted her head. Then turned toward me.

“No idea, mister big policeman.”

I nodded, keeping things calm.

“Can you tell me why you were swerving like that?”

She thought about it for a long time.

“I was wiggling my butt.”

That answer almost knocked me over. You’d have to see it — how she said it without a hint of embarrassment. I kept my professional face, you know how good I am at that. So I call over to Frank to get the drug and alcohol test kit ready.

“What do you want from me! Who are you! What am I doing here! You’ll regret this! Everyone will know and you— you…!”

That explosion of anger after the butt‑wiggling? Didn’t expect it. Sorry, it’s not funny. But anyway—

“Your license and registration.”

She didn’t move. For a moment I thought she’d died mid‑tantrum. Then suddenly she handed me the documents. I never saw her reach for them. Just— handed them over. Her hand barely sticking out of the half‑open window. It was a cold night, even for autumn.

“Your name?” I ask while checking her papers.

“Madison Smith.”

Nothing more.

“You know your driver’s license is expired?”

Her lips curled into a big smile.

“Couldn’t you do something about that? Such a handsome officer. Aren’t you lonely out here?”

I cleared my throat to show her I wasn’t entertaining that.

“But you’ve got quite a big gun, don’t you?” she laughed.

“I’m afraid you’re underestimating the seriousness of this situation. We’ll do a breath test. Step out of the vehicle.”

She got out slowly, carefully. Like a newborn foal trying to stand for the first time. I handed the documents to Frank and he went to check them in the car. I did the test exactly by the book.

She blew — now hold onto your chair — zero. She blew zero point zero. And she frowned. Looked at me like a pouting kid, arms crossed.

“This isn’t going the way you wanted, huh?”

I ignored it. Her mood changed with every blink. Second test.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I look at the display: ninety‑nine point nine BAC.

That shook me. The device was fine — we’d used it earlier that night. Worked normally. And as you’ve probably guessed, the drug test was negative too. I shined the light into her eyes, checked her pupils. They didn’t move. Didn’t react to light. She wasn’t faking it — they simply didn’t react.

I turned to Frank. It was a split second. But she was already sitting back in the car. Behind her I could see the interior — dirt, dried grass. The smell of wet soil. I looked back at Frank. He waved at me. The girl was now bored, whistling. I had to report this.

I went back to her car, never taking my eyes off her.

“Miss Madison, you’re coming with us.”

I radioed dispatch: “We have a driver with an expired license. Possible identity theft. Checking her now—”

Through the static I could barely hear anything. Her gaze was locked on me. One eye white, like it never had a pupil. The other drilling straight into my brain.

“Confirming: suspect claims to be deceased Madison Smith. Dece—”

The report cut off. Screaming. Crying. The kind that makes your body flinch. She sobbed, gasped, tears pouring out of nowhere. Frank covered me in case things went bad. I swear I couldn’t hear dispatch through her crying. Then the sobbing twisted. Turned guttural, unnatural. Until it flipped into hysterical laughter.

I’d had enough. I slammed my hand on the roof. Leaned in to pull her out. I trusted Frank completely — he had her covered. Later he told me he also struggled to understand what that thing was.

The laughter stopped instantly. Right when I leaned into the Chevrolet—

The car was empty. Seatbelt fastened, but empty. I looked around. No way she slipped out. No way she ran. One of us had eyes on her the whole time. She was gone.

We pointed the lights into the fields. You could see all the way to the horizon. Nothing. Just flat land. No one. Like she evaporated. No one can run that fast. Or that far.

I sat back in the patrol car. What the hell just happened — that was my first thought. The database entry was short and precise:

Madison Smith, 27. Female.
Deceased in a traffic accident, 2015.
Unknown cause of loss of vehicle control.
Accident on CR 303.

You’re probably expecting the end now. Old veteran scares the rookie. Better order another coffee. Because that wasn’t all.

When I got back to the station at Eastend Fort, some of the guys were smirking. We still had to write the report. I wasn’t used to being laughed at — you’ll have to get used to it too. Then came movie time. I needed to see it again.

My bodycam footage. I’m emphasizing that for you — appreciate it. Nah, just teasing you. Back to the story.

We sat around the laptop used for device checks. A colleague searched for the segment. The guys were nudging each other, joking. “What did you see, rookie? Scared of the night?” You know how it goes.

They shut up when he played it. The swerving car. The Chevrolet Malibu. It stopped crooked. I’ll admit, I was nervous the camera might’ve glitched. Hard to shake off that kind of embarrassment. I exhaled — she was there. On the footage. Our whole conversation. The alcohol test. The older guys clicked their tongues disapprovingly when I hit the roof on video. And then— she was gone.

“Rewind it,” they said all at once. He rewound it, but couldn’t hit the exact moment. Fourth time watching. She’s sitting still. And a second later — gone. Timestamp matches. File intact. We watch again. She’s sitting stiffly. Suddenly she turns toward us.

“Where’d you pull that from?” our tech guy said, hands raised.

“I didn’t play anything. Look at the timestamp — the video is paused.”

But in the paused frame, she turned toward the camera. Her neck covered in dirt. When we rewound again, it didn’t happen. But we all saw it. Silence. No one laughed. Just the sound of shifting boots. And that graveyard quiet.

I still had to write the report. So I went to the archive. Remember this — it might help you someday. I found her case. Madison Smith. Mysterious death on CR 303. While reading, I noticed additional notes slipped into the folder:

Vehicle with girl claiming to be Madison Smith. Recorded:
– Incident 2017, CR 303
– Incident 2019, CR 303
– Incident 2023, CR 303

Check of vehicle registered to Madison Smith:
Located at Smith Farm. Flat tires. Steering damaged. Engine block outside the vehicle.

This Chevrolet Malibu, Ocean Blue, cannot be the vehicle involved in the incidents.
Yet it appears from time to time at the same locations.

So what do you think, rookie? Makes the night shift more fun, huh? You’re probably wondering what happens to the car. That’s the thing. Every morning after an incident, it’s found at the exact spot where it happened. When they inspect it, the tires are flat. Engine mostly missing. No one knows how it gets there. We used to call old Smith to tell him we had his car again. Now we just have it towed straight to his farm. He wants it there. Reminds him of Madison. A Chevrolet that can’t drive, wandering CR 303 on its own. On the farm there’s a patch where grass won’t grow — because most of the year, that Chevrolet stands there. A car that can’t leave, yet keeps roaming.

If you ever meet it, be kind to her.

By Hary Sykora