u/Original_Impression2

As the title says, I opened my FB up to find 102 friend requests. Over the past few days, I had about three, and (like I always do), I checked out their page. I figured they were probably in one of the groups I'm in, and we had similar ideals, so I accepted the requests. Plus I was pretty sure they were real, and not bots, since they all had their FBs for several years.

Then I logged in this afternoon, and BOOM!

I'm pretty sure I'm not being brigaded, or anything like that (most of my personal posts are 'Friends Only'), and I haven't made any comments or posts in any of the groups I'm in that were in any way controversial... So what gives? Anyone know? Has this happened to anyone else?

I could not tell you why he caught my attention when he entered the diner. I was in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska. The Sandhill region, I'm told, where there are miles and miles of nothing but miles. Rolling grasslands speckled with cattle as far as the eye can see.

He shouldn't have stood out to me. He had the build of someone who'd spent his youth working the land – big, broad shoulders, thick neck, the kind of hands that could wring the life out of a tree if they had to. His face was the kind of weathered that came from years of seeing both the sun and the storms. There was a dusting of gray in his hair that peeked from under the brim of his well-worn Stetson, and a magnificent mustache that almost hid his mouth (and would rival anything in a Bollywood film), but it didn't make him look old. Just... experienced. No different than every other cattle rancher out here, right?

So why did my heart start racing the moment he opened the door to the diner?

His dusty boots clicked on the faded linoleum floor, as he politely tipped his hat to the waitress, who immediately turned to pour a cup of black coffee. The soft murmur of the handful of other customers, the clink of dishes and silverware, the tap of the spatula on the griddle, all faded away as he settled onto the stool next to me at the counter. He nodded just as politely to me, though there was no smile in his eyes. They weren't cold or hard. Just... wizened?

It sounded like a stereotype, but I couldn't think of a better description. Actually, I couldn't think of much of anything at the moment, and I couldn't tell if I was afraid, or developing some weird schoolgirl crush on this stranger.

“Don't worry,” he said in a deep, whiskey-rough voice that sketched images in my head, of riding horseback for weeks through kicked-up dust in a cattle drive, “I'm not here for you.”

Do cattle ranchers actually still have-- wait. “I'm sorry. What?”

His eyes lowered as he turned his attention to the steaming coffee our waitress set in front of him, and the deepening crinkles at the corners of his eyes gave me the sense that my reaction had amused him. There was a long moment of silence, while his hands curled around the beverage as if to warm them, then he hooked a large finger through the ear of the bright, white cup, and brought it to his lips. He took a quiet sip and seemed to be contemplating his next words.

“I get that reaction a lot,” he said, as he set his coffee back onto the worn counter. He seemed to be intensely interested in the play of light in the black liquid... Or maybe he was looking into another dimension... And where on Earth did that come from? “The pounding heartbeat, the shallow breaths," he continued, "the tunnel vision... which should be starting in just a moment.”

This... was confusing. His tone was almost kind, but his mere presence made the inside of my own head anything but. “What are you?” I blurted out, too quick to put the brakes on any crazy thing that seemed to pop into the forefront of my scattered thoughts. Still, the instant I tried to talk to him again, the greasy eggs and toast I'd just eaten, along with the too-strong coffee, threatened to make a reappearance.

“You're getting warmer,” he said with a soft chuff. Then he turned his gaze back to me. 

I couldn't look away. The air seemed to crackle with the tension between us. It was the way he looked at me. Not like I was some stranger sitting next to him, but like he’d been watching me for a long time, from the corners of my life, maybe even from before I was born. He wasn’t judging me. Not yet. He was... waiting.

And his eyes! There was certainly a warmth to them. But it wasn't affection. They seemed lit from within. A rich, light brown that shaded toward amber. Almost like a burning ember.

Now those eyes crinkled in genuine amusement. “Now you're getting hot.”

A bead of sweat ran down the back of my neck, but it wasn’t from any imagined heat. No, there was something else. Something about the way he sat there – so still, so... patient. As though time itself had no power over him. It made my pulse quicken even more. No longer from fear, but because I felt seen. And I wasn't sure what was more unsettling, the irrational fear, or the sense of being deeply, fundamentally seen by the likes of this stranger sitting next to me.

The jukebox at the far end of the diner clicked and hummed, and I nearly launched myself off my stool. Strangely, “Mr. Sandman” began to play, but not the old, bouncy, cheerful, 1950's version by The Chordettes. No, it was the haunting cover by SYML. That cover always made me think of the sexy, but brooding, main character from that series -- you know the one.

I quickly glanced away and became intensely interested in the grainy dregs at the bottom of my cup. Good god, what was your problem?! I had just come to the inescapable realization that it had to be a stupid schoolgirl crush. Stop this! You do not know this man, and you're way too old for this kind of behavior. Especially since your last relationship crashed and burned, you idiot! For crying out loud, fictional characters are not real!

I sighed and closed my eyes in defeat. Why do I always do this? “Fuck,” I whispered.

A deep, resonant chuckle rumbled next to me, and I turned toward the sound, unsure if I was offended, or charmed. I was definitely scattered. Why was this man – someone I had never even seen before... Good god! Has it only been five minutes?!

I must've looked for all the world, like the stereotypical deer caught in the headlights, and yet the man beside me – and was he even actually a man? – said softly, almost... gently. “I told you. I'm not here for you. No need to jackrabbit on me.”

“What does that even mean?” I mumbled, not sure if I was asking him, or myself.

“You're burning up,” he said, lightly.

I instinctively pressed the back of my hand to my forehead, and was rewarded with another resonant chortle.

“I mean, you're right. I'm not exactly your standard man. At least not in the way you're familiar with,” he said.

Weirdly, it was in a tone as casual as talking about the weather, rather than in the low tone a conspiratorial confession like that would normally be made. It was like he didn't care if everyone in the diner could hear him. I did, though. I was beginning to think I might need to call for help if things went further off the rails.

Then, I scanned the diner, and that was the moment my stomach dropped to my feet. There was no one here. I don't mean just the handful of customers, but the waitress, the cook, and even though I never saw him, I could no longer hear a sound coming from the dishwasher. The diner was completely empty but me and this man who... was not a man?

I turned back to him. I gulped for air, and my heart was attempting a jail-break from my rib cage. I suddenly felt like I was in the epicenter of a small earthquake, and I grasped the counter with both hands in a desperate attempt to keep from falling off my stool.

Darkness threatened as I whispered, “W-who... the fuck... are you?”

He tipped his hat again, and this time, I could actually see the smile under that ridiculously glorious mustache. “Pleased to meet you, Ma'am. I'm Death.”

There is a number that appears in my notifications (214-226-9139) that is, allegedly, to access my voicemail. But it's not. Googling turned up information that the number is a cellphone number in the Dallas, Tx area, and part of the AT&T network. My service is Cricket, which is owned by AT&T.

I currently live in Northeastern Kansas, and my phone number is one I've had for about 14 years, from when I lived in the Los Angeles area.

When I call the number, it asks for a password, which I never set up, since I have never accessed this alleged voicemail number previously. It instructs me to press ##, and the recording tells me it will send an SMS to my number. But I never get anything.

Also, I have never been able to access my voicemail via the actual programmed VM number. That one asks me to enter my 10-digit phone number, and when I do, it tells me the number is invalid.

I really don't use my phone much, except for texting most of the time, but if Doctors offices are calling and leaving a voicemail, I would like to be able to access them.

A disturbing study published April 2, 2026, of 2,689 U.S. and Canadian men (18–34 years), shows that when guaranteed anonymity, 95% of these men will happily -- and even proudly -- admit to coercion to get sex.

Now, that's 95% of the men who were surveyed, not necessarily 95% of men, period. So, even if the numbers of men who will find a way to force sex on women out in the wild is lower, it makes you wonder just how prevalent this really is. This is not a good look for men in any case.

Isolate, Inebriate, Intimidate, Repeat: High Rates of Sexual Force Against Women Are Reported When Young Men Given Anonymous Surveys

If you'd prefer not to slog through a dry, scientific journal, I also linked the Lisa Sonni YT video that discusses the paper.