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08-22 19:35 - 'Found here: [link] / An incomplete list of False-Flag Anti-Semitic attacks / [link] ... 799483/pg1 / [link] / Kerri Dunn was a visiting psychology professor at Claremont McKenna College. She was convicted of perpetrating...' by /u/StuckAtWork removed from /r/worldnews within 16-26min

2020.08.22 19:35 removalbot Camera dorm hidden college

Found here: [link]1
An incomplete list of False-Flag Anti-Semitic attacks
[link]2 ... 799483/pg1
Kerri Dunn was a visiting psychology professor at Claremont McKenna College. She was convicted of perpetrating a hoax, in which she defaced her own car by slashing its tires, breaking its windows, and spray painting several ethnic slurs and a partial swastika on its doors and hood. Dunn was tried in Los Angeles County Superior Court in Pomona, California. A jury found her guilty of one misdemeanor count of filing a false police report and two felony counts of attempting to file fraudulent insurance claims on her car.
The same day as the hoax, March 9, 2004, Dunn gave a lecture on the topic of hate speech at Claremont McKenna. She reported that someone else was responsible for the damage to her car and spoke at a campus rally the following evening. Dunn blamed the incident on a covert group of white male racists being supported by the general atmosphere of intolerance on the campus. The rally was attended by several thousand students, faculty members, and citizens of Claremont who cheered and applauded Dunn.
[link]4 ... university
November 6, 2007 A Jewish college student who reported swastikas on her dorm door drew some of them herself.
Sarah Marshak, a George Washington University freshman, was caught on tape by a hidden video camera in the sixth incident of swastika drawing on her dormitory door.
Marshak told the university's student newspaper that she drew the last three of the six swastikas.
[link]5 ... 855S04.DTL
Swiss police: Woman may have faked skinhead attack Saturday, February 14, 2009
ZURICH - The Brazilian woman who claimed to lose her unborn twins in a skinhead attack was not pregnant and probably carved the initials of Switzerland's main right-wing party into her own skin, investigators said Friday.
Zurich University forensic medicine chief Walter Baer talks at a press conference about the case of a 26-year-old Paula Oliviera from Brazil, who claimed having lost her unborn twins after she was attacked and wounded by nazi skinheads at a train station in Stettbach near Duebendorf, in Zurich, Switzerland, on Friday Feb. 13, 2009. Investigators and experts of Zurich University's forensic medicine institute say the woman who claimed to have lost her unborn twins in a Swiss skinhead attack was not pregnant and probably cut wounds into herself.
Last year, an 18-year-old woman in Germany was convicted of faking a neo-Nazi attack by carving a swastika into her skin. In 2004, a young French woman admitted to lying about having been robbed on a train by a knife-wielding gang that mistook her for a Jew and scrawled swastikas on her body _ but only after the alleged attack was condemned by then-President Jacques Chirac.
[link]6 ... tism16.htm
Jewish man arrested over arson at Paris Jewish centre August 31, 2004
French police confirmed that a man arrested in connection with what was first believed to be an anti-Semitic arson attack on a Jewish social centre a week ago was a Jewish man who had worked there.
Monday, 26 July, 2004,
Hoax race attack woman sentenced
A French court has handed down a four-month suspended prison sentence to a woman who invented a story about being the victim of an anti-Semitic assault.
Marie-Leonie Leblanc, 23, was also put on two years' probation and ordered to get psychiatric treatment.
Her story of swastikas being daubed on her body during a brutal attack on a Paris train caused outrage in France.
She claimed that Arab and black youths had also slashed her clothes and cut a lock of her hair.
[link]8 ... eport.html
Police: UNH student made false claims
DURHAM -- A University of New Hampshire student who told police she was the victim of a religion-based hate crime has been charged with making a false report.
Breanne Coventry Snell, 24, of 3127 Quail Hill Drive, Midlothian, Va., was charged with three Class A misdemeanors, according to a university statement released Friday.
Snell filed a report with UNH police that she was assaulted by two men on Oct. 3 after leaving a meeting of the Jewish student organization, Hillel. She said the men grabbed and pushed her, made derogatory comments about Jews and talked about Nazism.
UNH police launched an investigation and on Friday determined that the incident was unfounded
[link]9 ... &listSrc=Y
French Jews stunned by claims that rabbi faked own stabbing By Daniel Ben Simon
The French Jewish community is in an uproar over allegations that Reform Rabbi Gabriel Farhi, who was stabbed on January 3, may in fact have faked the stabbing.
The rumors began to surface immediately after the attack, when police came to investigate. "I've seen assaults and stabbings as part of my job, but I must say that this was a rather strange stabbing," Marianne quoted the officer who led the investigating team as saying. A few days later, the doctor who examined Farhi submitted a report to the police in which he wrote that "the wound does not match the rabbi's version of the assault."
[link]10 ... 25&ei=5070
Published: August 31, 2004 Earlier this month, dozens of tombstones in a cemetery in the southern French city of Lyon were scrawled with swastikas and anti-Semitic slurs.
A week later, a man turned himself in to the police and said he had written the graffiti because his earlier attack with a hatchet on a Muslim man in Lyon had not prompted the news media response that he had wanted. He said he had decided to desecrate the Jewish graves when a similar neo-Nazi incident in the northern French region of Alsace made the front pages of newspapers across the country.
The Aug. 22 fire in Paris also made headlines, and drew swift reactions from French politicians. Swastikas and statements like, "The world would be pure if there were no more Jews," had been written inside the building before it was set ablaze, suggesting that it was a neo-Nazi attack. Justice Minister Dominique Perben called for a "war on racism."
But on Monday, the police said they had taken a mentally unstable Jew into custody on suspicion that he set the fire. They said the man had worked as a watchman at the center, which prepared kosher meals for needy Jews.
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1: www.evi*yos*id*.**m*t***ad-6033.html 2: www*godlike*roduct*o*s.**m*fo*um 3: e**wik*pedia.org/w*ki/**rr**Dunn 4: j*a.o*g**ews/article/200*/**/06* 5: *ww.sfg***.*om*cgi-bin/art*cl*.c 6: *ww.ad*l**d**nstitute*org/Racec* 7: *ews.*bc.c*.uk**/hi/e*r*pe/3927739**t* 8: a*chive*seac**s*onli*e.com/new** 9: www.**aretz*com/ha*e***ages/*hAr 10: *ww*ny**me**co*/2004/08*31/inter
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TLDR; Respondus has a very high chance to break your computer to the point of being nearly unusable. Avoid putting it on your personal computer at all costs. There are a couple ways to avoid installing it at the bottom of the post.

Hello, all. I'm a junior computer science major at UARK. As I'm sure many of you fellow students have noticed, many (or all) of our classes at the U of A this semester are requiring Respondus Lockdown Browser for exams. I'm here to tell you: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, INSTALL THIS SOFTWARE ON YOUR PERSONAL COMPUTER. Allow me to explain. Being a computer science major and knowing that not everyone out there is tech-savvy, I'm going to try to explain it as well as I can, in fairly simple terms that most people should recognize. Think eli5, but not quite that dumbed-down.
Respondus requires access to a very well-hidden part of your computer, called the registry, in order to stop you from changing to other windows/applications, or having anything else open. In short, there's a very good reason why this part of your computer is so well-hidden. It's the part of your computer that streamlines basic tasks, like knowing how to open different file types, and drawing the lines from your double-click on an application to the code for that application, and how to read that code. In order to completely stop you from accessing other stuff during an exam, Respondus goes into your registry and manually (supposedly temporarily) stops it from drawing those lines, and it also overlays over your entire screen so that your task bar and windows menu (or app bar on mac) is harder to reach. In doing so, though, it leaves behind bits and pieces of those blocked paths scattered around your registry.
You'd think that computers would just know how to open applications, but the registry is integral to that process. The way Respondus works, it sets some things up in the Registry that it leaves behind between launches. Because of that, the next time your computer tries to do certain things, it'll have a bunch of hurdles to jump in the process that weren't there before, and some paths may still be blocked entirely. This has the end result of really slowing down your computer. If you regularly use your computer, that's a huge problem, and it's almost completely unfixable. The only ways to fix it would be to A) do a complete factory reset on your computer, possibly including reinstalling the operating system (Windows or MacOS), or B) get a completely new computer, which is hugely inefficient and most people don't have the money to have a personal computer and a school computer that's Respondus-slowed.
In the interest of transparency, this doesn't always happen. If you want to risk it, go for it. However, I will say that a lot of the people in the unofficial UARK CSCE (computer science and computer engineering) discord server have had direct troubles with Respondus.
Try to avoid installing Respondus on your personal computer. To my knowledge, there are a few ways to do that:

  1. Inform your professor(s) of the risks of Respondus, and ask if there are any alternatives. The only one I can think of (without just showing up in person for exams) would be to have open-note assessments, but maybe professors have other options I don't know about.
  2. Use a campus computer. A lot of majors have major-specific computer labs, and every college should have at least one if your major doesn't. There are computers in the union you might be able to use for assessments. There's at least one accessible tech spot lab in Kimpell hall, and there are certainly available computers in J.B. Hunt hall. I've seen a computer area in the art building. Some dorms have computers, if I remember correctly. The problem with those would be that they're unlikely to have web cams, which may be "required" for some Respondus exams (though you can technically opt out of using your web cams somewhere in Respondus' Terms of Service). In that case, you may be able to get a laptop with a camera from the STC in the union; I'm not entirely sure, but it's worth a shot. There are non-laptop computers in the STC available for public use, too, but make sure you wear a mask and wipe down your equipment before and after use if you go somewhere public.
  3. Connect to a campus computer from your computer. This one is slightly more complex and could be tough to figure out for those that aren't tech-savvy, but essentially you can visit this link (https://its.uark.edu/printing-labs/computer-labs/remote-labs-virtual-desktops.php) to learn how. It requires a different application to be installed to run a virtual machine environment, and depending on your major you may have access to different computers, but most campus computers should already have Respondus installed, so while it's initially the most complex option, this may be the most direct and "easily-accessible", in that you can do it from your own computer.
The university is trying to make us install a program that's basically malware; many antivirus programs will detect Respondus as a dangerous program, and much of the time it requires an override to install it. Try to keep your computer safe and healthy. Avoid Respondus.
submitted by EnigmaEpsilon to UniversityofArkansas [link] [comments]

2020.08.05 20:33 elvis6Aug Hidden camera college dorm

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2020.05.21 08:15 159789fishy I need help ...

Assalamu Alaykom Islam community of reddit.
I hope you are all doing well in these challenging times InshaAllah.
I would like to start by saying that I am calling out for help as a last resort now. I always thought I would never stoop as low as to start typing on social media to get Hidaya ...I dont know maybe im just ashamed for no reason ... Anyways, I think you’ve figured out by now that im Muslim Alhamdulillah ... I am male, 23 and married Alhamdulillah ... Since childhood I was always taught Islam by my parents and surroundings. I used to live in Jordan (Middle East) and I always attended Islamic schools from kindergarten all the way up until high school. All the influence of my parents mashaAllah and I am very thankful for them Alhamdulillah so Islam and the idea of creation was ingrained in me very early and these were my base beliefs that I carried with me... My family had a bit of a tough time in Jordan, keeping up with rent, bills etc.. so we applied for immigration to the United States. After 2 years of waiting, we got our approval Alhamdulillah, it was something we have been making a lot of duas and prayers for. My mother is a very dedicated and devoted woman when it comes to her deen mashaAllah. Always doing her best to keep the food tasting amazing and devoting a huge chunk of her time to reading and studying Quran. Even while she’s working hard at home, she has some kind of lecture playing either on tv, her laptop or phone. I will never forget, before we left for the US. And even after the approval was out, my mother was still skeptical about going and she prayed Salatul-Istikharah (Prayer for when you need guidance) and even spoke to a Sheikh. The Sheikh told her that if your family is built on strong Iman (faith) and firm base beliefs and dont fear for yourself or another family member to be driven away by the waves of worldly life, then there’s nothing wrong with going, because he did emphasize how much more open western cultures are, and how more vulnerable some people are to these cultures. When I came to the US, it was obviously a whole new world for me. People acted differently, treated you differently, worked differently and overall it was a different atmosphere and vibe just being in a foreign place. I believe I was around 12 years old when we immigrated. It was 4 of us including my little brother and I. We stayed at a friend’s house while my dad worked for about 2 years. We then moved to a house across from a Masjid (Mosque) Alhamdulillah. My parents (especially Mother) have been wanting that house since we came to the US. We always left the Masjid and saw it right there infront of it and always made duas we’d be closer to the house of Allah in a foreign country. I attended public schools from 7th grade until around 10th grade. I then was transferred to the Muslim school at the Masjid right across from our new house Alhamdulillah!!! My mother was also accepted as a Quran and Arabic teacher at the school!! It was awesome. We were very thankful and happy. In the past back home Mother would help me memorize Quran, so I had started memorizing Surahtul Baqarah and she kept up with me until I got to half of Surahtul Nisaa until I just sadly kind of gave up when I grew older and picked up some interests ... At the Masjid I was known by the Sheikh and a few people for my voice and recitation. I would be asked to make Athan (call for prayer) often during school for Duhur and Asr. A Quran competition was held at the Masjid, I competed in Surahtul Baqarah and the community board gifted me a money prize Alhamdulillah ...I had a bad habit of stealing. I was often caught by my parents with an action figure or a little toy that I pocketed from a super store like walmart or target. One day, I decided to steal money from a donation box at the Masjid and use it to buy video games. I was caught on camera by the Sheikh and he had a talk with my dad. I remember my dad having that talk with me. He was extremely disappointed and sad. I promised him I wouldn’t do anything like that again. My way of thinking was growing, I hit puberty and got more curious as everyone does ... I had wild existential ideas even though I always kept saying to myself in the back of my head; “I am a Muslim and I know the truth.” Eventually I graduated from the Islamic school and went to college. Mind you, I was never successful in school with anything except maybe gym class ... long story short; I got through high school by mostly cheating. I had a passion though; computers and gaming and just IT in general. Never put my skills to good profitable use or evolved them in anyway. I picked up the bad habit of smoking weed .. Just by surrounding myself by potheads I became one (duh). But I learned that the hard way. I had also picked up the disgusting habit of cigarettes ... I was never proud of that. It was only a matter of time until my parents got a whiff of smoke one day and things kind of spiraled out of control from there. Our friends and community got news about me somehow and my family’s reputation goes downhill ...I get seen by friends’ parents smoking a cigarette outside pretty often... things weren’t looking pretty for me... I hated my life and everything about it. I start going into decline. Im high almost all of the time. I try to keep the smells of burning off me but my efforts are doing little. I did nothing about my classes in the two colleges I went to even though I had federal aid and grants. Yes, I went to two different colleges and have zero credits. I tried to properly go through the educational system twice, and failed ... I started a haram relationship during college and sadly lost my virginity to that person ...and then of course it ended ...I begin to lose hope in myself and just let go of everything.. because I just knew that im in the wrong and there was no way to fix me ... my family eventually got sick of me. I have been giving them a bad reputation and basically forcing them to smell weed and cigarettes every time I come home. I did not turn down a drink if it was offered to me. Sometimes I would even go for one and often buy some. It wasn’t something I did often but it happened for a period of time. My parents were basically fed up with my habits and gave me an ultimatum. Keep in mind they did give me multiple chances and I did try to hide and be sneaky for a little while but I was always caught. I was told if I came home smelling like that again, they didnt want anything to do with me. Now of course I knew they didnt mean it and I knew that. But me being careless I just went on about my habits, and lo and behold; I come home high to my nose and basically get told to leave. I grab a bag and pack essentials and I left. My parents expected me to leave and come back after a day or two. But I decided I’d rather be homeless and high than be with my family and sober. I stayed at a friend’s house for a day and tried to survive in the cold for about a week if I remember correctly. After that I would some nights sleep in a friends car when he allowed it and some nights at an old lady’s motel she was staying at. I dont know what I was thinking at the time. All I had in mind was; “just keep going”. I tried to support myself by working. I later had to leave the motel because the lady had to leave. By then I’ve heard a few times that my family had been trying to get ahold of me from some friends. I always avoided talking to them again. I just wanted to move on. I found a friend that was willing to have me stay at his place for monthly rent. It was somewhat reasonable and my only choice at the time. There were a couple of friends staying with me at that house. I one day needed money and made the worst decision. I dont know what was going through my head, maybe I was desperate but I absolutely have no excuse. I suggested to my friend that we steal from the Masjid’s donation boxes ... we broke in late at night several times and took a significant amount every time. I knew there were cameras but I disregarded the fact that Allah SWT is always watching .... in those several months when I was away from home, I went all out. Tried it all. Didnt stop to think; “hey that might be bad for you”. I was completely blinded by shaytan (satan), although I don’t always like blaming him ... It came to a point where an LSD (drug) trip made me actually sit down and think deeply ... maybe a little too deeply but the thoughts started a chain reaction. Please dont ever try or even get close to doing acid or LSD or any drug, I am only describing an experience I had whilst trying to find myself ... situations are different.. Anyways, I knew I was in the wrong place. I looked around me and just soaked my whole situation in ... I didnt like anything about the state I was in, yet I continued to stay away from home. It was weird, it’s like I was punishing myself for giving my parents a hard time. It felt like I deserved what was happening to me. But then I realized what I’ve been supposedly doing to myself is also stretching out to others close to me ... Me being away from home like that has really put a toll on my parents ... they have been worried day and night hoping I would come back any day ... but it took me longer than they expected...When I sat there tripping hard on LSD... I thought about how my little brother is going to grow up not knowing where his big brother ended up.... I remembered that my mom had suggested my cousin over seas for me in marriage in the past but I never gave her an answer regarding that. I started thinking about how close my cousin and I used to be. We were childhood best friends. I had a future already set up for me and I was just walking away from it ... I realized quickly I needed to get back home to my family and just live a normal life ... and I did ... my family welcomed me back with open arms like nothing happened ...but I never let go of some habits sadly...I kept smoking weed but quit cigarettes and moved on to vaping ...I thought my life was just slowly getting back to normal but then my mother wakes me up one day to two detectives at our door that want to speak to me. My mother is terrified. I get driven to the station and interrogated. It was the robberies I had committed with my friend while I was away from home. I confessed fully and was sent home ... I put my family through hell with this. The Masjid reported to the police seeing two individuals on camera breaking in several times and stealing. My parents were in shock. Constantly afraid I might get thrown in jail and get eaten by the system ... Alhamdulillah after lots of blood and tears, I was put on probation and paid a large fine over a year to the court... by then I had grown a bit more... started listening to Islamic lectures. Started getting closer and closer to Allah. Tried to keep consistent with my prayers and read Quran on the regular. But then I slowly slipped again. I started missing being high and picked up on weed again more often. After I got back home. I attended for a year at a technical school for IT and graduated. My bad habits have become better hidden than before. I have found ways to get around the smell. Having a vaporizer does not stink the place up like cigarettes do. And having THC cartridges also doesnt have odor like marijuana does. And we have these devices available to us in most states nowadays... so basically, my parents have no idea that im still on my past habits ... and im not proud of this particular thing that I can hide it from my parents now that im older and smarter ... eventually I actually kept on going up and down in my Iman. My faith will fluctuate after being high up for only about a week ... one day I finally told mother that I would like to talk to my auntie (cousins mother) and ask for her daughter in marriage.. her parents agreed and we start talking. A year later I go overseas and we get married. When I say I have found my match in heaven. I mean it. And Alhamdulillah! Allah SWT gave me more than I ever wanted ... she is perfect in every way mashaAllah and I love her with my soul wallahi ...we click on every level and it’s something that actually got me closer to Allah. Just having an amazing wife makes me want to worship Allah tirelessly ... but again, I cant keep a steady Iman. I cant keep it consistent.... and I worry thats the reason my life hasnt been going too well lately. Yes I went back home but I still missed out on crucial years of college ... all those days I couldve had a great college experience. I wanted to dorm and have a roommate to study with ...all gone. I try to learn something computer related so I can start a career with it maybe but I sit down and have no motivation... everyone tells me I need to build my body and be healthy and dont get me wrong I want that but my laziness is over the top... ive given my parents a very hard time. I dont even deserve them. I have been married to my cousin overseas for about 3 years now and her visa is taking a while to issue especially with covid ...she wants to come to the US and study here... My wife and I extremely love each other ... what kills me inside is the fact that ive touched someone else in the past and during our marriage...and thats cheating and she doesnt know about any of this ...Ive always went into decline when I think I dont have control over myself ... Even though my wife and I love each other very much, I shouldnt react the way I react with her sometimes but I do it. I know im not like this. I know I love her and tolerate every atom of her ... but I sometimes find myself hostile towards her. I am unstable. I’ve tried to fully fast Ramadan in the past but always failed. I thought I could make it the last ten days this year but nope.... im lazy to even get up and make wudu. Im very ashamed to say that porn has also taken over my life ....I just need some help maybe some advice from someone that can resonate with my situation... This could just be a shot in the dark or a conversation opener. Please feel free to ask me anything.
Jazakum Allah Kair. I love you all.
Assalamu Alaykom 💙💙💙
submitted by 159789fishy to MuslimLounge [link] [comments]

2020.04.18 13:53 FoggyGlassEye The Cache

Heath checked the tracker. He was close, maybe ten minutes away if he didn't hit traffic. He donned his mask and gloves before pulling back into the lane heading south.
The college was a ghost town, most of the dorm rooms empty, as classes were being run online until further notice. For students like Heath, who didn't exactly have somewhere to move back in, the Dean had made sure that dorms wouldn't be closed off. Everything else, from the cafeteria to the library, was closed. Most of the buildings on campus were completely locked up.
With all of his friends staying with their families, Heath was having a tough time dealing with the solitude. He'd hoped to lean more into his favorite hobby- geocaching- but the usual buzz of activity in his local community had died down to a whisper. The forums were as barren as the quad.
The coordinates that a new member posted that morning were a godsend. Sure, they were along a road outside of town, and seemed to lead directly to a convenience store, but Heath wasn't worried about that. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that the cache would be one of a series of dead drops, all leading to a final treasure that he hoped was worth the effort. The person who organized it had to go outside to set it up, after all, and the same risk was required of whoever heeded the call.
Either way, it got Heath outside, made him feel active for the first time in weeks. If it wasn't for the damn mask, he could even breathe some fresh air.
The instructions from the post were simple. "Find a place of rest, search for a guiding star in the darkest darkness, and push." Just vague and promising enough to send a shiver of excitement through Heath's body.
As he parked in front of the store, Heath considered what the first clue might mean. His first thought was the bathroom, but that felt too obvious. "Can't be that simple," he mumbled to himself, his voice muffled by the mask. "Might as well check to be sure."
In the store, a young Indian man was sitting behind the counter, glancing up for a moment before continuing to scroll through his phone. Heath laughed nervously, holding his hands up. "Not contagious, I swear. Just need to use the bathroom."
The man sighed. "Not exactly shaking in my boots," he said in a clear American accent, which Heath honestly wasn't expecting. He pointed to the ceiling above the register. "Still got some bullet holes in the tiles. Guy came in last month and got trigger happy. If I can still work here after that, a virus isn't gonna drive me off."
"Cool," Heath said, nodding awkwardly. "So... can I use the bathroom?"
"Door's unlocked," the man said, pointing to the far corner of the room.
"Thanks," Heath mumbled, heading for the door marked 'REST ROOM. PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY.'
The room was as small as one would expect. The mirror was tagged with obnoxious little graffiti scribblings, lude comments about women and a surprisingly well-drawn caricature of the governor giving head to a bearded man who Heath could only assume was meant to be homeless; the happy little guy even had a sack tied to the end of a stick.
Heath pulled his phone out and read over the clue again. "Darkest darkness, guiding star, push" he said, looking around the room. The walls were all tiled, so if common sense- and years of loving the movie Saw- taught him anything, the guiding star had to mark some sort of secret compartment.
The wall under the sink was bare, so Heath checked the area around the toilet. Near the ground, one of the tiles looked cracked along the edges. With the light from his phone against it, Heath could see the mostly rubbed away image of a star drawn on the surface. He pushed.
The tile didn't move much at first, but it had a wobble to it. Heath found a gap near the bottom of the tile and pushed a fingernail into it before pulling outward. With a crack, the tile was pried from the wall, leaving a small hole in it's place.
Heath took a look at the tile before setting it down. It looked like it had been glued in place after being broken off, but it felt brittle, and the side that had been covered was even dirtier than the side with the star on it. Whatever was inside, Heath had a feeling that it had been there for a while.
Setting the tile down, Heath held his phone up to the hole. There was something inside, but it wasn't what he expected. Heath assumed it would be some kind of note, or maybe even a burner phone that he could use to find clues to the next drop.
Instead, he found a wooden box containing several flash drives, and it was caked in dust. Despite the bad vibes he was getting from the age of the drop he'd just discovered, Heath could barely contain his excitement. There was something special on these drives, he was sure of it.
Stopping only to buy an energy drink on the way out, Heath hurried home, ready to see what the next step of this adventure would be. His eyes were on the road ahead, so when the white van in the parking lot began to follow him from a distance, he was none the wiser.
As soon as he was back in his dorm room, Heath left his shoes and jacket on the floor, pulling the box out of his bag and placing it on his desk. Pulling his laptop close, he opened the box and turned it over, letting the flash drives pour out.
Along with the drives, a piece of paper slipped out, sliding across the desk. Heath picked it up and turned it over. A note was hand-written on the other side. 'Whether you found this on your own or were given directions, know that the information you have ownership of is very dangerous. Do what you want with it, but consider your safety above all other factors. Good luck.'
Heath had seen messages with similar ominous warnings in geocaches, but never outside of October. The shiver of excitement was replaced with a cold sweat, and Heath briefly entertained the idea of putting the cache back where he found it. Instead, he grabbed one of the flash drives and plugged it into his laptop.
The folder that opened contained several more folders. Each folder had a person's full name. Heath recognized a few, including members of the campus faculty and Ken Grady, the businessman who owned half the storefronts in town. There were a lot of Gradys with their own dedicated folders.
Heath saw that the Dean had his own folder, and started by clicking on it. Inside, he found dozens of files, documents with titles like 'office transcript 5-17-04' and 'oath redeclaration transcript 1-1-07'.
Some of the files were accompanied by images with similar names. The PNG file 'oath redeclaration 1-1-07 6' showed the Dean- still recognizable despite the hairline being a lot lower than it was nowadays- kneeling before the camera in a yellow robe. Red flecks dotted the side of the Dean's face, but if it was blood, it didn't look like it was coming from him.
The rest of the images were equally as strange. Some of the pictures showed other robed people, all wearing masks to hide their identities, surrounding the Dean as he kneels down. Others show him in his office, through what look like multiple hidden cameras. Given the angle of one of the images, one seemed to be in a decorative statuette and another was somewhere in his bookshelf.
Heath only opened one text file, a Word document titled 'value analysis and review 1-2-07'. The file looked like an official office report. A clip art outline of a rose marked the top of the page. Underneath, the file detailed the 'value' of the Dean as an 'asset to our cause.'
The final paragraphs made Heath close his laptop and sit on his bed, his head in his hands. "The fuck do I do with this?" he asked himself, knowing that the information he had access to was only the tip of an iceberg he didn't want to see the entirety of.
'The resources he provides us are invaluable. Imports from all across the country, all passing through his campus and into our hands, are worth the inconveniences. However, this forces us to work with someone who seems more interested in the tangible benefits of the arrangement than the spiritual reward waiting for the worthy on the other side. I suggest we keep him on a short leash, let him think he has a wide berth, and reconsider given him a piece of paradise when the end times come.'
'Besides, if anyone notices how many non-locals are disappearing from the campus, it all traces back to him. We could stage a regretful suicide in a matter of hours after you give the order, if only to assure that he'll never get the chance to expose us. If you have someone more pliable in mind to replace him, just say the word and we can still get it done.'
'E. C.'
Heath didn't know where to go with the information. The police? If someone had the Dean in their pocket, they could have the police chief as well. And for all he knew, there were even more powerful people with someone else under their thumb, be it E.C. or whoever it was he was submitting reports to back in 2007. Hell, the governor might be on one of the flash drives, with files detailing his involvement in whatever this was, from back before he was servicing homeless cartoons in roadside restrooms.
As he considered returning the flash drives to the hole in the wall, Heath heard a light knock on the door. "Yeah?" he called out without thinking.
A soft voice barely made it through the door. "You still pouring over those documents, or are you free to talk?"
Heath was frozen in place. He couldn't will himself to breathe, much less speak.
"I can come back later, if you prefer," the voice called out.
"What do you want from me?" Heath finally asked, terrified of the idea that the visitor would return.
"I'm here to discuss the thumb drives. I couldn't risk retrieving them myself, but now that they're back in play, I need the information on them."
Heath ran to his desk, where he reread the paper that had been left with the flash drives. "The note in the box said I was supposed to do whatever I wanted with them," he said, wondering if the man behind the door was the same person who left the files for him to find.
The man sighed through the door. "If you want to keep them- which I do not recommend but promise is an option- I would be more than willing to settle for copies. I have my own hard drive, large enough to store all of the files with space to spare. You can keep the original documents if you wish, but I need the information they contain."
Heath stepped towards the door. "Why?"
The man laughed. "If you read some of the documents, you'll know why. With everything going on, the people who created those documents will be busy preparing for the end times. They won't see me coming, and if I have copies of those files at my disposal, they won't stand a fucking chance."
Heath pulled the flash drive out of his laptop, gathered the others, and walked to the door. "Whatever this is, I don't want anything to do with it," he admitted. "Here." He began to slip the flash drives under the door.
After a minute of hearing nothing, Heath placed an ear to the door. "Hello?" he called out. "You still there?"
Still hearing nothing, he pulled the door open. The flash drives were gone. He looked down the hall to his right and saw no one, but when Heath looked to the left, he saw a figure standing in the open doorway to the stairwell. Dressed in all black, a thin-framed young man wearing a black face mask stared back at him. "Thanks for these," he said, holding one of the flash drives up. "This'll go a long way to taking apart something that should have never come together. If you stay in town, get ready for the fireworks."
"Oh, I'm considering getting the fuck out of here," Heath replied, despite knowing that he had nowhere to go.
The man shrugged. "Might be a good idea, but if you stick around, stay safe. Whether you keep an ear to the ground or bury your head in the sand, I wish you the best of luck."
And with that, the man pocketed the flash drives and began to walk down the stairs, the door closing quietly behind him.
A week passed, Heath spending most of his spare time regretting the geocache search and giving up the flash drives in equal contradictory measure. His curiosity and fear were at war, a powerless regret the only aspect that brought them together.
As he got out of bed, considering whether to stay inside or go for a walk, Heath noticed something out of the corner of his eye. An envelope had been pushed through the bottom of his door.
Heath knelt down to turn it over, and felt a familiar weight inside. He look at the front of it, and saw that only his dorm number was written on it.
Sitting as his desk, Heath carefully opened the letter, opening it fully before turning it over and allowing the flash drives to slip out. Heath set the envelope down and turned on his laptop. He plugged in the same flash drive he'd been looking at before, and as he expected, the files were still there.
A single Notepad document had been added to the folder, titled 'Please Read: From Buddy'._ Heath opened it, and found a simple message inside.
'I promised, didn't I? Enjoy the reading material. Avoid the pictures if you're squeamish.'
'p.s. don't be surprised if I feel the need to get back in touch'
Closing the Notepad file, Heath allowed the thought of destroying the flash drives cross his mind. Pushing that thought aside, he double clicked on the Dean's folder.
It was as good a place to start as any, and he had all the time in the world.
submitted by FoggyGlassEye to libraryofshadows [link] [comments]

2020.01.03 03:54 Nicky_XX Dorm hidden college camera

Felicia: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Kira Barrington, 3/2/2017
It’s always sucked, being Drew Barrington’s daughter.
Before I had control over my bowels, I was the sole survivor of one of the most notorious unexplained crime sprees on the West Coast. And not one of those exciting unsolved mysteries that gets its own true crime podcast, with clues and shadowy witnesses and unnamed informants. In my case, everyone knows who did it. No one knows why.
On February 12th, 1993, veterinary resident Drew Barrington left work with party favors: bottles of Phenobarbital and Telazol. That night, after dinner, he surprised his three children with chocolate milkshakes. At two o’clock the next morning, Drew’s wife Carolyn woke to adjust the heater and tripped over the body of her younger son.
The paramedics showed up to find 3-year-old Lee dead on the living room floor, 5-year-old Andy stiff and lifeless in his bed, Carolyn hyperventilating in the baby’s room, and Baby Kira - me, barely one - limp and blue, breathing shallow breaths in a puddle of my own vomit. My fragile gag reflex saved my life that night. I spent three days in the ICU with tubes sticking out of every orifice, but I survived, and I suffered no permanent side effects.
As for Drew Barrington, the cops came across his ’85 Celica six hours later, parked in a dirt bank along Interstate 5. They found my father slouched over the wheel, a revolver in his right hand and the contents of his skull splattered across his drivers’ side window.
The investigators were stumped. My mother insisted, and friends enthusiastically corroborated, that my family’s life had been nearly perfect. No one was raking in the big bucks, but we got by on my dad’s resident’s stipend and my mom’s teacher’s salary. Neither parent cheated, neither abused drugs or alcohol, and conflict was restricted to boring marital quarrels over whose turn it was to take out the trash. My father had a depressing childhood, but nobody who knew him had the slightest inkling he could rise to this level of sociopathy. He was a nice guy. That’s all anyone could say. Nice guy, nice guy, nice guy. Like a chorus.
Actually, I lied. The police did find a single clue. But it only made things murkier.
Before he’d climbed out of bed, taken his revolver, and driven south on the interstate, my father left a short, hand-written note on his bedside table for my mom to find. It read:
“Caro I love you. I’m so sorry. Know it’s gone with us.”
Fuck, I wish my dad had been schizophrenic. I wish he was screwing the nanny. I wish he’d been an alcoholic or a nymphomaniac or in debt to the Russian mob, because if any of those things were true, I’d be able to despise his memory in peace. I’d know, you know?
My mom says she’s at peace with it, but I seriously doubt that. Poor Mom. She did the best she could. She sold the house and found a job in her hometown of Pasadena, California; put hundreds of miles between us and Eugene and everyone who knew her as that chick whose husband murdered their children. Mom was always a sad woman. To her credit, she made an effort to smile for my sake. She let me have a carefree childhood, then finally told me about my father and my brothers when I was thirteen, at which point she decided it was better I learned from her than from the internet.
She let me look through photos of them, ask what they were like, calculate how old my dead brothers would be if they’d lived. But, she insisted, I was not to tell my friends and I was not to dwell. It was in the past. No one knew why Dad did it, and obsessing would accomplish nothing.
Poor Mom. All she wanted was for me to be happy. And I was, even after learning the horrible truth about my father. I had her, and I had my grandparents and aunts and cousins and a lot of friends at school. I don’t even remember being particularly angry or depressed when she told me. I was just curious. When I was bored at school or sitting in the car with Mom or lying in bed at night, I’d think about my dad and my brothers, Lee and Andy. Why had he killed them? Why had he tried to kill me?
That unresolved curiosity festered into exasperation, and I realized my mom was right
- obsession was useless. I’d never know why. And that exasperation sharpened into a resentful sting. I was Drew Barrington’s daughter. I was the last little piece of him left on the planet. His blood flowed through my veins. Encoded in my DNA were the answers to all my questions.
In my most self-indulgent, self-pitying moments, I think my mother wishes I’d died with my brothers. That I’m some kind of loose end she can’t pluck. She married again when I was nineteen; moved to Phoenix with Dan and my two little half-sisters, Olivia and Charlotte. I’m happy for her. Dan’s a good guy, and the girls might be the most adorable creatures in the universe. But it’s for the best there’s a state line between us. My mom needs to be somewhere she doesn’t have to see my face every day. She says I have my father’s eyes.
My story starts in January of 2017, twelve years after I first learned about my father and his crimes. I had a decent job at a small marketing firm and a one-bedroom apartment in Echo Park. My status as Drew Barrington’s daughter still inspired the occasional bout of hair-tugging frustration, but those gangrenous mental sores had nearly scarred over. I’d go days, sometimes, without my father even crossing my mind.
Then I got the package from my aunt.
“Aunt” is pushing it. Gina was briefly married to my father’s brother, Luke. But Luke died years before I was born; Gina married again and had kids, and her family lived in Atlanta. I’d never met them.
Luke and my father had been very close. Apparently, some of my father’s belongings stayed at Luke’s house, stuffed in cardboard boxes and stacked in the attic and forgotten. Now that her kids were in college and the nest was empty, Gina finally had time to clear out all their old junk. She found my mom’s number in a little black book. Through her, she got in touch with me.
“It’s nothing really,” she’d told me during our one awkward phone conversation. “Just some old records, his college year books, and a couple shirts. I was going to toss it all, but I feel you have the right to do with your father’s property what you will.”
I murmured a thank you. Honestly, I’d wished she’d tossed it.
“The records might be worth something,” she continued. “And, um, there’s one thing I should probably explain. It’s a key, wrapped in some foil stuff. He mailed it to me just a couple weeks before he… well… you know.”
A couple weeks before he tried to poison me with chemicals used to put down animals.
“It’s for a storage unit. No idea why he sent it here; the storage place is in Visalia, California. I threw it in the box with the rest of his stuff and forgot about it.”
I thanked Gina again and bid her a half-assed farewell. Three days later, the FedEx man dropped off a cardboard box. It was, as Gina reported, old records and clothes, yearbooks from 1979 and 1980, and one envelope containing a key wrapped in something resembling foil.
A key wrapped in fireproof packaging. I recognized it from work. This seemed a bizarre choice. Had my dad thought the key would spontaneously burst into flame?
I dumped it all in a Salvation Army drop box. Even the yearbooks, though I highly doubted anyone would want a yearbook they’re not in. But I kept the key. My curiosity about my homicidal father still hovered around me like an obnoxious bee, and the possibility for even a scrap of clarity was too tantalizing to pass up.
I got lucky, I guess. EZ Vault Storage was still in business, and my father’s cheap unit was untouched. The guy I talked to said I was welcome to whatever was in it. The unit had been rented - and prepaid for 10 years - while his uncle still ran the facility. The old man had died since then, and no one noticed as the small unit sat occupied for fourteen extra years.
I made the drive to Visalia on my next day off. My father had paid for the cheapest, smallest unit - yet it still seemed too big for its contents. There was a single box, maybe two feet by one foot by a foot and a half, wrapped in the same fireproof material as the key. I loaded the box into my car and drove home, resisting the urge to peek until I was back in Los Angeles, sitting on my living room floor. I took a deep breath, pried off the lid, and braced myself for the big reveal.
Newspapers. Lots of newspapers. Newspapers, and nothing but newspapers. I sighed. What had I been expecting to find? A manuscript entitled “Exactly Why, In Excruciating Detail, I Murdered My Children And Committed Suicide?”
Fighting back a fresh wave of exasperation, I unloaded the contents. There were five stacks, each tied with twine. My father had jotted notes in the margins of some of the papers.
The first stack was thin and extremely old. As I unfolded the first article, I saw it was from the Richmond Dispatch - August 5th, 1880. Along the top margin, my father wrote a single word - CHAMBERLAIN.
Son of Congressman Abducted! The title read.
In the late hours of August 3rd, 1880, the five-year-old son of Representative Samuel Chamberlain disappeared from his bedroom. His parents were out at a party, his nanny asleep in the servant’s quarters just down the hall. There had been no reports of a disturbance at the family’s mansion that night, and the police had identified no suspects. Included was a large photograph of little Arthur - a cute kid with big blue eyes and ice-blond hair. He’d last been seen wearing blue overalls and a red shirt.
Two subsequent reports detailed the exhaustive, ultimately fruitless search for Arthur Chamberlain. The only lead the police ever got came from the nanny, an Irish immigrant named Eleanor Connor. She claimed Arthur had been letting a little black boy into the house, a child who said his name was Ezekiel. However, no one else had ever seen this Ezekiel, and the authorities concluded Eleanor was either nuts or lying.
The final article in the stack was dated August 13th, 1880, and it was about a completely different matter. Representative Samuel Chamberlain was dead, as were his wife, two daughters, three sons, one sister, several nephews and a number of friends and associates and household servants. The group had gathered at the Chamberlains’ mansion to help look for Arthur. Somehow, the house caught fire, and all inside were killed. The Representative’s whole family had been wiped out.
A label reading “Property of the Richmond Public Library” told me from where my father had stolen these papers. But I had no idea why he’d been so interested in this particular tragedy. He’d underlined a couple passages, including the description of Arthur Chamberlain’s mysterious buddy Ezekiel.
I untied the second pile of papers, nearly as old. The Atlanta Journal, circa December 18th, 1925. The top margin was labeled HARDING.
Atlanta Boy Missing!
Another lost kid. This boy was the fourteen-year-old son of a hoity-toity doctor, seemingly vanished - like Arthur - from his own home. The police were sure young Robert John Harding had simply run away. His parents mentioned he’d been acting weird and aloof for weeks, and spent all his time in the stable where the family kept their racehorses.
Then, the next article: Family Dead in Massive Fire.
The extended Harding family had gathered at the home of Dr. John Harding, Robert’s father, for a Christmas party. Again, the house caught on fire. Again, there were no survivors.
This stack was thicker. The third article was from 1937, published by the Cincinnati Enquirer, and profiled a third missing kid. Seven-year-old Katherine Fogel this time. Her mother, Sarah, insisted the little girl was in her room on the second floor of their townhouse - she had heard Katie’s laugh through the door. Then, the laughing stopped. Sarah went to check on her daughter. The girl was nowhere to be found. This was especially strange because Sarah hadn’t heard Katie’s door creak, or her footsteps on the stairs, or her window open.
She did, however, reveal to investigators that her daughter had picked up an odd new playmate - a boy named Artie, who Katie found alone on the doorstep.
Artie. Arthur? Arthur, the tiny blonde assemblyman’s son, vanished without a trace and never found? More than a little uneasy, I moved on to the next yellowing newspaper, dated a week later.
Apparently, Sarah Fogel was a professional artist. She’d drawn a portrait of Katie’s mysterious friend Artie, which the Cincinnati Enquirer printed. It depicted a little blonde boy with overlarge eyes and a puppy-dog smile. I flipped back through the pages I’d read and found the photograph of Arthur Chamberlain.
The resemblance was more than uncanny. The resemblance was exact.
Knowing and fearing what came next, I opened the next successive article. Of course. Another devastating fire, at the home of Clara Harding Fogel, Katie’s grandmother (and Dr. John Harding’s eldest sister). The devout lady held a prayer vigil for her little angel, attended by - well - every surviving Harding not in attendance at Dr. Harding’s Christmas party a decade before. Someone knocked over a candle. Another family completely wiped out.
The final article in the HARDING pile served as closure. Sarah Fogel, who had not accompanied her husband to his mother’s house, was arrested and tried for the murder of her daughter. As a Jew married into a Protestant family, I doubt she got a fair trial. It was not-so-subtly suggested that she was also responsible for the fire that killed her husband and his family. Sarah was executed in 1939.
My uneasiness had crescendoed to nervousness. This was getting freaky. Three missing kids Three massive fires. Two entire families destroyed.
The third stack of papers was the largest. My father had labeled this one WOODS.
You get how this was going.
January 14th, 1944. Jill Woods, aged 10, missing from her family’s Jackson, Mississippi manor. Jill’s grandmother and guardian, Abigail Woods, insisted the police investigate a child named Katie, who had formed an abnormally tight friendship with Jill in the months before she disappeared. Katie was never identified. Jill was never found.
January 30th, 1944. Twenty-four members of Abigail Woods’ family were killed in a fire that broke out at the Jackson mansion. No survivors.
November 27th, 1958. A fire at the Raleigh home of Frank Peretti and his wife, Marlene Woods Peretti, killed twenty-six people gathered for Thanksgiving dinner. There were no missing children attached to this tragedy. But the Perettis had recently made friends with an orphan named Robert, presumed to be among the dead.
August 3rd, 1972. Eight-year-old Bryan Martin, kidnapped from his father’s vacation home on Myrtle Beach. He’d been in his room, playing with a little beach friend named Jill, when his father stepped out. When Ken Martin returned, both Bryan and Jill were gone. “Jill” confused the police. Because no one in the neighborhood could identify Jill, and her family could not be located. According to Ken, Jill told Bryan she was his cousin.
Neither Ken Martin nor his ex-wife, Lisa Woods, were related to anyone named Jill. The kidnapped daughter of Lisa’s long-dead great-uncle had been a Jill, but that Jill - if by some miracle she were still alive - would be nearly forty.
August 10th, 1972. A Myrtle Beach motel burned to the ground. Lisa Woods and her family, all in town to assist in the search for Bryan, had been staying at that motel. In all, thirty-two people were dead.
This time, however, there were survivors - two maids and a front desk clerk. And the building had been saved by the fire department. One maid was “extremely traumatized” by the event, the paper stated. She’d run to the paramedics, her body still smoking, screaming about “that monster” and “that abomination” that had “killed them all.”
No one paid attention to her. But a later article reported some members of the Woods family had been dead before the fire even started. Three of the bodies were in good enough condition for autopsies. All three had been killed by massive blood loss, not smoke inhalation. One was missing a leg, one’s throat had been violently slashed, and the third was missing a head.
The official police line was that a serial killer finished off the Woods and set the fire to cover his tracks. Two weeks later, they arrested a homeless man and insisted he was their culprit.
The fourth pile of newspapers stopped me cold. BARRINGTON.
My family.
June 21st, 1899. Fire at the home of Irving Barrington, owner of the largest farm in Mississippi. Twenty-three people dead, including Barrington, his wife, three children, and twelve grandchildren. The event was described as “the latest in a string of tragedies to afflict the prominent family;” one of the Barrington sons had been killed in a riding accident just weeks before, and a grandchild succumbed to pneumonia. The only surviving Barrington was Irving’s youngest son, Bartholomew, safe in his Harvard dorm room.
I turned the page. The previous articles chilled my blood; this one froze it solid.
August 7th, 1980. 13-year-old Zoe Barrington of Tuscaloosa, Alabama was missing. A large photograph of Zoe accompanied the article. She was a pretty girl, pale and red-headed, with big blue eyes. She looked a lot like the pictures I’d seen of my father. She looked a little bit like me.
Zoe’s parents were out of town for a few days, visiting their oldest son Luke and his new wife. They’d left her and her older brother, Andrew, alone on their half-acre property. Around 10 pm on August 5th, a neighbor lady went to their house to check on the siblings, as she had promised their parents she’d do.
She found 15-year-old Drew curled in the fetal position on the sitting room floor, delirious and sobbing. The expensive Polaroid camera his parents gave him for his birthday was smashed to bits at his feet. Zoe was nowhere to be found.
The neighbor, the police, and finally his parents tried to coax out of Drew what he had seen. But all he could manage was “find Robby” and “he’s not human.”
“Robby” soon resurfaced - Zoe’s best friend told the police he was Zoe’s secret boyfriend. But Zoe’s parents never heard of him, and an extensive search didn’t turn up so much as a whiff of the kid. The brother, Drew, had been reduced to a mute, sobbing shell. His parents had him admitted to a psychiatric hospital.
I braced myself. I knew what was coming next.
38 Perish in Fiery Crash.
The entire extended Barrington clan, stretched across the East Coast, mobilized to search for Zoe. Lucy Barrington, Zoe’s mother, planned on putting up some family members at their home, others would stay in a hotel. Lucy and her husband Peter met them all at the airport with a rented tour bus.
While crossing a bridge, the driver somehow lost control of the bus. The vehicle mangled a guardrail and took a swan dive into a rocky canyon. At the point of impact, the gas tank exploded. The mighty fireball could be seen miles away. There were no survivors.
The sole Barrington spared was teen-aged Drew, still under 24-hour supervision at the mental ward. Drew Barrington. My father.
Every hair on my body stood on end. I’d known my father lost his family at an early age, but my mother had spared me all these grisly details. The massive crash. The missing sister. His psychotic breakdown.
I was ready to drop the entire box in a dumpster and go out for many, many drinks. But there was one bundle of papers left, and curiosity proved stronger than fear.
This one seemed thick. When I untied it and shook out the individual papers, a small brown book fell on the ground. I nudged it aside for the time being.
The final series of articles wasn’t labeled. These were the most recent, dated 1986, from The Union News Daily.
October 12th, 1986. Child Found Dead in Family Basement.
On the night of October 11th, a woman named Bonnie Ibanez from Rahway, New Jersey called the police in a panic, screaming that her six-year-old son, Shane, had been abducted. The police arrived to find the house a mess - Bonnie had torn it apart looking for her son - but bearing no signs of a break-in.
Bonnie, through tears and hyperventilation, managed to communicate to the cops that Shane had been in his room, playing with a neighbor kid, when she went to check out a noise in the basement. Upon returning upstairs, both boys were gone. Shane and his little friend Artie.
I shuddered. Artie, again?
I flipped to the next page, then the next. There it was. A sketch artist’s rendition of Artie. Arthur Chamberlain, the little blonde boy who vanished in 1880 then turned up again, un-aged and unchanged, sixty years later. Apparently he was back for a third round. The caption below the picture stated he wore blue overalls and a red shirt.
I was terrified, but I needed to know more. I read on. This one ended differently. The kid was dead, not missing.
Indeed. The next morning, Shane’s father - a pilot named James Ibanez - came home. The cops watching the Ibanez house allowed him to go inside. Thirty minutes later, they went to find him, and found two bodies - James, dead on the couch, his wrists slit; and little Shane, badly hidden under a blanket in the basement. Little Shane, sans head.
The cops’ theory, and the theory the article writer seemed to endorse, was that the mother had something to do with the kid’s death. Mostly since she kept insisting this “Artie” child was some sort of kindergartener Charles Manson. The next article, and the next, and the next, followed the cops’ continuing hunt for both Artie and evidence to nail Bonnie Ibanez. Neither was successful.
Then, a few weeks later, the investigation suffered a fatal blow. The Ibanez house burned down. No one was hurt, but the crime scene - and any incriminating evidence - went, literally, up in smoke. The final article stated the police had been forced to drop all charges against Bonnie, who’d been tossed into a padded cell after a complete mental breakdown. The cause of the fire was never determined.
I turned back several pages to a picture of the Ibanez family, smiling happily in front of Cinderella’s Castle at Disney World. James, a tall, handsome black man of about thirty, held his son up to the camera. His wife, Bonnie, was a foot shorter than him; petite and milky-white, with long mouse-brown hair. Little Shane, an adorable square-jawed child with dark curls, big eyes, and coffee-colored skin, waved gleefully from his father’s arms.
Bonnie and James. Was one of them a long-lost relation of the Chamberlains? The Hardings? The Woods? Were they my long-lost cousins? My dad seemed to think this was a possibility.
I reached over and picked up the little brown book I’d tossed aside. I opened it. On the first page was written, in loopy cursive:
My Diary. Property of Zoe Amelia Barrington.
My vanished aunt’s diary. I moved to the couch, reclined on my stomach, and turned to a dog-eared, faded entry.
February 20th, 1980
I met a cute boy!
My parents were really mad about the pre-algebra test I failed, and I had to get out of the house, so I took a walk, out in the trees at the back end of my property where nobody ever goes. And he was there, sitting outside the old shed that’s a pile of useless rust.
His name is Robby. He’s really cute. He’s got dark brown hair and dreamy eyes and he dresses all cool and old-fashioned. And he was a really good listener! I told him all about school and math and my parents, and he told me I was a beautiful and nice girl and that it would all get better.
He’s an orphan. He said he needs my help. He ran away from his abusive foster parents. I felt really sorry for him. So I told him he could hide in the shed. No one will ever know, I don’t even think my parents know its back there. It’s kind of cool. I have a secret friend, or maybe even (crossing my fingers) a secret boyfriend!
I flinched. I dropped the diary on the couch like it was diseased. Reading the whimsical thoughts of a vanished girl, etched by her own hand in lovestruck teen-aged ecstasy, suddenly felt nauseatingly voyeuristic.
Robby, who dressed all cool and old-fashioned. Robby, who wasn’t human. Robert Harding, the runaway.
There was a crackling sound from my kitchen. I shot back to the present. I listened for a few seconds then, not hearing anything else, returned my attention to Zoe’s diary.
March 1st, 1980
I can’t stop smiling!
Robby says I can’t tell anyone, since he’s a runaway and he’s scared the cops will catch him and force him to go back. But it’s so hard! Stupid Karen Ross keeps on yakking about how Larry and her snuck into see American Gigolo and made out. And when I told her that Larry’s pimples are gross and I’d never let him touch me with his sweaty, slimy fish hands, she said that I’m just jealous because nobody’s asked me out on a date.
And it was so tempting to tell her that the most handsomest, nicest, most grown-up boy in the world lives in my backyard. I think about him all the time. Lucy and Rita keep on asking me why I’m smiling.
As soon as I get out of school, I run into the trees and out to the shed to see him. I’ve been sneaking him sandwiches and milk from the house. We take walks, and we talk about stuff, and today he picked a daisy and gave it to me!
I feel really, really sorry for him. He said his parents and his brothers and sisters were all murdered when he was a little boy. After that the police came and took him away, and he’s lived in nasty orphanages and foster homes with parents that beat him up.
I asked him if they caught the guys who killed his family, and he said no. His family was different, and the cops didn’t care if they got killed. I asked him why. He said he’s not ready to tell…
I smelled burning. I looked up.
The fire alarm was going off. The air around me was ashy-grey. Grey tendrils wafted into the living room from my kitchen. I jumped to my feet and ran towards the source, and nearly fell on my face as I inhaled a lungful of smoke. My curtains and cabinets were on fire, and the flames were spreading rapidly up the walls and across the ceiling.
Coughing wildly, I retreated to the living room. The smoke had grown thicker; I could barely see three feet in front of me through the sea of black air. Half-thinking, I scooped up the little brown diary and ran.
I ran up and down the open-air hallway of my apartment complex, knocking on every door and screaming FIRE at the top of my lungs, while fishing in my purse for my phone, dialing 911, and spitting information at the dispatcher.
Then I was running for the street in a pack with my neighbors; then I heard the sirens; then LAFD was battering down my door and and uncoiling their hose; then dark smoke billowed out, writhing like a shapeless organism; and then I started to think again.
Ignoring the firemen’s cries, I ran back towards my apartment. Everything I owned was in there. My laptop, all my books, photos of my family and friends, the angel blanket my late grandmother hand-stitched for me. I got as far as the window before one of the paramedics grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
“You kidding me, honey?” he snapped. “If you got a death wish, pills are less painful.”
I think I shrugged. I’d forgotten about my stuff, and the danger, and the fire.
Because when I’d looked through the window, I saw a figure looking back at me. She’d reached up and pressed a pale hand to the glass.
It was a girl in her early teens. A redhead with freckles, dressed in a black V-neck top. Her big blue eyes cried out to me like a puppy in a dirty cage, betraying unfathomable terror. Her mouth moved. She was trying to tell me something.
I didn’t tell the firefighters. They couldn’t save her. I knew who she was, and I knew she’d met her doom long ago. Because I’d stared into those eyes not even an hour before, looking up at me from a photo on the cover of a Tuscaloosa newspaper, circa 1980. I held her diary in my hand.
Zoe. My dead dad’s missing sister, Zoe.
submitted by Nicky_XX to nosleep [link] [comments]

2019.11.24 19:26 Suspicious-Buddy Hidden dorm college camera

This was in her college dorm room. Little did I know her roommate had set up some sort of hidden camera to "catch intruders." Turns out she got the entire hamming on camera and is threatening to contact the police if I don't do a bunch of her homework for her. Is there any way out of this situation? Am I even in danger of facing legal consequences at all? We're in California.
submitted by Suspicious-Buddy to Advice [link] [comments]

2019.09.12 22:25 TheBestestLad27 Hidden camera college dorm

For the past three months, I've been working a part-time job at a hotel as a front desk agent. It was part of a large chain (I won't say which for legal purposes) and it's a really cool job. I'd get to give guests as much free cookies as they want and, for the most part, the guests are really nice. Every now and then there's an honors member that demands shit that we don't have because we're always sold out in the summertime. Summertime is busy due to it being a high tourist area since we're so close to Niagara Falls. Now that it's fall, everything's quieter and guests are more calm since we now have the resources to give them the rooms and upgrades they "deserve".
Now during those months, I had learned from a co-worker that freezing the cookies made them taste REALLY good. This led me to freeze at least two cookies during my shift and then go back to eat one or both of them when it was quiet. Parallel to the fridge is a tv moniter that displayed all the camera feeds in the hotel. Since it was located directly behind the wall behind the front desk and there were cameras of the desk and the lobby, I would usually eat my frozen treat while watching the cameras to ensure I wasn't leaving whoever was working with me to take the full workload while I snacked.
A couple of the cameras feeds always spooked me however. There are three cameras in the ballroom and the ballroom isn't used to often (and when it is you bet your ass we got shit from guests because of the noise). When the ballroom wasn't in use, the cameras had a sort of low-light mode where everything in the room could be viewed in black and white while covered by a cloud of fog due to the A/C still being pumped into the room. Looking at these feeds, I always expected to see something scary run across the screen for a split-second. It never did though.
Until a couple of days ago.
One moment I was looking at the empty ballroom and the next I was looking at a very, very terrifying humanoid.......thing I guess. It looked like a human but it was most definitely not. Its body was skinny and very lanky. Even in the dark I could see it didn't have the outlines of ribs or the anything close to nipples and a bellybutton that people have. Instead it just looked like something abstract, it's body shaped like a project God gave up on halfway through. It's head was hidden in the dark, but not for long.
It moved closer as to acknowledge that I was watching it.
As it got closer, I noticed marks on its torso. When it got even closer, I realized those marks were a collection of burn marks and scars, from where I didn't know, but would come to know and wish I never had. Its face, however, was still hidden in the darkness. It then moved to one of the tablecloths and began to carve into it it. It leaned over the cloth so I couldn't see it and ruin the surprise beforehand. In less than a minute, it was done and turned to show me the finished project.
Are you ready to see me?
I nodded hesitantly at the screen, prepping myself for the worst. It moved with a slow, yet slender pace towards the camera where its face might be revealed. Once it got into the light I was terrified at what I saw.
Whatever it was, it was wearing a human face stitched on and the face was horribly deformed and definitely decaying. The mouth was stretched way too wide in order to show of this thing's hideously large smile. More attributes became clearer as it moved closer. When revealed I noted that it had no nose, just the skin from the face, and its eyes had no pupils. as reflected by the cameras, the eyes were pure white. It's smile grew larger as if to recognize and take pleasure in the terror I was feeling. It then grabbed another one of the tablecloths and carved a new message.
See you soon, Jacob
Safe to say that I lost my shit and ran around into the front desk, pale faced and scared. The assistant manager Casey noticed and stopped talking with a guest.
"Hey are you ok?"
"No no no no no no NO! There is something in that fucking ballroom-"
"Woah, calm down Jake. Whatever it was it couldn't have been that bad."
I responded with a raised eyebrow and a look of disgust while cold sweat started to drip down my face.
His response was to shrug and pick up a walkie to call maintenance.
"Front desk to engineerin-"
Even the guest at this point was frightened. I continued.
"You will not send Zhe (our maintenance man on staff) up there."
Casey called anyways and Zhe went up to look. I watched the camera in fright, but the bloody murder I expected to come never did. Instead I watched Zhe move through the room and just report a couple shredded tablecloths. Sadly that meant what I had seen had happened and I couldn't chalk it up to college sleep deprivation. Zhe came down to the front desk to ask what had happened, and all Casey had to tell him was that I had thought I'd seen something in the cameras and freaked out. I would've told him my side of the story if I wasn't in shock going over what had happened and what sort of danger I was now in.
One question stuck with me: Where did those burn marks and scratches come from? I found the answer out today, only a couple of days after that incident, when a guest went missing and no one knew where she had gone. Her luggage was left in her room and she wasn't answering her phone. No one knew where she went. We looked through our service recoveries (entries we make when a guest is dissatisfied) and request logs for maintenance and housekeeping. Sure enough one of them stood out.
No one knew what happened except me. No one would've believed me if I had told them. All I did was go to get my cookie and you could guess who was waiting for me when I went looked at the camera. Except something was different about it this time. It took me a second to figure out what it was.
He was wearing her face.
And her hair.
And all it was doing was smiling and standing there.
Eventually it moved toward another tablecloth.
"FUCK ME" was my first thought. I gave it the time it needed while standing in utter silence.
You will be next in my collection
I booked it out of the room and out of the hotel. Nope nope nope nope not doing that. I don't care what any of my coworkers think of me. So now here I sit writing this. I'll probably throw this in my drafts once I'm done. Just needed to put all this in words so as not to feel like I'm going insane. I'll see if I want to post this not or eventually. I guess I'll leave an ellipses in case i write anything after this.
. . .
oh shit oh shit im fucked its there i see it its outside my dorm complex fuck im fucked its gonna get throught the vents its just fuckin looking at me guys im scared please dont leave me missing and forgotten like the woman and for christs sake BE CAREFUL cause its out there now and i dont know where its going and uh oh shit. its got a fuckin tablecloth and its starting to carve in it oh no whats it gonna be.................."nighty night Jakey" oh god its coming im done for good night all and beware it who wears its victims faces
submitted by TheBestestLad27 to nosleep [link] [comments]

2019.07.28 05:05 capmack He Slept Below Me.

I can’t have this floating around in my head. Can’t take another night of reliving fractured memories and waking sweat-soaked to the moonlight streaming in through the window with Cass no longer beside me.
She’s taken to sleeping on the couch. Her excuse is she doesn’t want to wake me when she gets up early in the morning for work, but I know that Cass can’t stand another sleepless night next to me.
My therapist said that writing this down might help with my insomnia, and to be quite honest, I’m tired of the dark circles beneath my eyes and the way Cass tiptoes around me like I’m a half-starved creature, desperate and unpredictable.
The wedding has been postponed indefinitely; our wedding dresses hang like corpses in our closet. Cass no longer shows off her engagement ring to everyone she sees—she took it off before she went to sleep last night.
This—this thing—this visceral mass hanging between us, is a gaping void, a collection of half-formed memories of the past ruining my present.
My therapist gave me homework, “Write it all out. It doesn’t need to make sense to anyone but you, just put pen to paper.” I’d heard about this forum from a friend, and I suppose writing my thoughts down here counts as me “doing something about it,” though it’s not exactly putting pen to paper. Reflecting now on all that has transpired, there is a part of me that wishes I had never decided to ask questions. Never decided to dig. I should have listened to mom and Frank and just burned the box, put all of that behind me, but there were too many holes in my memory—in my childhood—to just let this slip past me. I think anyone would have done the same, in my position.
I suppose it had all started the night I woke up outside. I was about five, old enough to be fully aware of my place in my life—of course, my life was limited to my house and my first grade class, and, occasionally, the park, but back then, those places seemed vast, a new adventure around every corner.
I remember waking up annoyed, because the pine needles were pressing harshly into my bare skin, itching at my face and arms and legs. The moon was bright and bloated overhead, its light filtering down through the tree branches. The air was heavy and muggy, and the cacophony of summer bugs drowned out all other noises.
My eyes were blurry from sleep, and my head was still heavy with fog, but even in my haze, I knew I shouldn’t be in the woods; mom had always told me not to wander in, because I would get lost. I remember being worried that I would get in trouble.
I stumbled to my feet, my five year old brain trying to process what was going on. All around me, all I could see were dark trees looming up and up into the night sky.
Frightened, I began yelling, screaming myself hoarse as I ran between the trees, trying to find a way home. Everything looked exactly the same, I ran and ran, but I might as well have been running in place for all anything around me looked familiar.. Finally, I remember collapsing to the ground, my harsh panting the only noise that filled the dense night. The insects had gone silent.
I remember wondering where the cicadas had gone when I heard the telltale crack of twigs breaking and leaves crunching. Footsteps. Someone saying my name, softly in a deep, raspy voice, over and over, like a chant.I don’t remember anything after that.
Later, I woke up in the sparse undergrowth of the lot across from my childhood home. The faint echoes of the sunrise were just beginning to color the horizon, but all the lights were on in my house and a cop car was parked in the driveway. I stumbled my way across the street, crying for my mom. She embraced me on our front stoop, letting me cry and snot into her shoulder; afterwards we never really talked about it again, and the event eventually faded into just another old memory.
It wasn’t until years later, when I was moving the last of my boxes out of my mom’s house, loading them into my old pickup to take to my new apartment in town that I even remembered that long-suppressed memory.
Only one box was left in the old unused room upstairs—my old room—its cardboard flaps fraying and the bottom of the box concave from old age.
I called downstairs to Cass, asking her to get another empty box. This one looked like it would split open any moment, spilling its contents everywhere.
The box was filled with a mound of photographs, all jumbled together. Some of them were polaroids, yellowed with age, others looked newer; one of the photos on top dated back to my senior year of high school. It was strange, nostalgic almost, seeing the old me. God, 18 years old, I had been so young. I snorted at how ridiculous my old haircut looked, I couldn’t believe I had ever worn it that long. Holding the picture, alone in my old room, lost in the past, I couldn’t help but feel as if someone was watching me. I was just being paranoid, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. A noise from downstairs made me jump, but it was just Cass; she had dropped something and was cursing under her breath.
I giggled at her clumsiness and turned back to the picture in my hand, examining it in the weak sunshine filtering through the window behind me.
The focus of the picture was me, about midway through my senior year, standing in my driveway next to my car, still in my work clothes. I had worked in a fast food restaurant back then, “to build character” as my step-dad Frank had said. All that job really did was make me hate fast food, but I suppose that’s a good thing, all things considered.
I was looking away from the camera, laughing at something now long forgotten. It was a strange angle for a picture; in the home I had grown up in, the person would had to have been standing almost behind me in the boxwoods that blocked our house from the neighbors to take this picture.
I was staring at the photograph, somewhat in shock as a few old, fragmented memories pushed their way to the forefront of my mind. That night in the woods, so long ago, a raspy voice, the worry on my mom’s face.
That’s when Cass stomped upstairs, holding a folded box in her hands.
“What’re these?”
She squatted down next to me, holding out the folded box to me.
“Embarrassing baby pictures?” She asked with a waggle of her eyebrows and leaned closer to look at them.
“No,” I replied with a snort, holding several pictures up for her to examine, “I’ve never seen these before.”
She took the pictures from me, the teasing smile slowly dropping from her face, her eyebrows creasing together in perturbed confusion as she looked at them in silence. These photos, taken at different times, in different places, all had the same eerie feel as the first.
There were snapshots of me outside at school, in front of my house, standing at the open window of my room, but they were all taken from odd angles. Through the links of a fence, taken haphazardly from the side, from across the street.
“These are—,” Cass started to say, looking up at me with unease heavy in her eyes.
Mom called up to us from downstairs, impatient to get to her afternoon water aerobics class.
Cass and I quickly reboxed the photographs. I intended to confront Mom about the photos, but she was pacing anxiously in the kitchen, glancing at her watch in that passive-aggressive way she had mastered whenever she wanted to guilt people into bending to her will. It always worked.
“Fine, fine, we’re leaving,” I said, giving her a quick hug before showing Cass and myself out.
Cass drove, leaving me to sit in silence, the box sitting ominously in my lap. I picked up a polaroid and stared at the picture of seven year old me on my bike outside. The picture was taken from the empty lot across the street from our old home.
That move had always seemed strange to me, an abrupt desertion of the home I had lived in for 14 years of my life. We had left the summer before I started college and my mom and Frank had never really said why, always dancing around the question, claiming that, with me moving out anyway, they had no use for a house with so much extra room.
My head throbbed, the implications of what this box of photographs meant making me sick.
Thoughts were shaking free, repressed memories from long ago, buried under the debris of time and my mom’s careful avoidance of certain subjects. There had always been a strangeness about my childhood, events I could never quite explain and had eventually let fade into the fuzzy background of the past, because kids have a relative sense of what constitutes a grave situation.
But now, sitting in my old pickup with Cass years later, I was staring at a picture of five year old me sleeping peacefully in the woods all those years ago.
Writing all of this out, I wouldn’t exactly call it therapeutic, but it helps to have a timeline of these events. Children never really grasp the gravity of a situation, they have short-attention spans and the ability to put a positive spin on anything.
In the chaos of moving into our apartment and starting college, the box of photographs was left forgotten in the back of a closet for a long-time. Cass brought it up once, but I was almost scared to ask my mom about them. I had started having nightmares filled with trees looming as tall as mountains and a raspy voice chanting my name.
I had just wanted to focus on school.
And then Cass had proposed and life had moved on, positive and happy, and it wasn’t until we moved again that Cass refound the box.
Trying to puzzle the photographs into some semblance of order, we had arranged them on our kitchen table into a rough chronological order. They told a story of a young girl growing up through the lens of some camera hidden just out of sight—
“Mom, what the hell is happening? What are these pictures? Who took them?”
I was pacing through our small kitchen, phone crammed between my shoulder and ear. Mom sighed, the whoosh of breath tinny over the phone.
“Frank and I knew you would ask questions one day…we just—we wanted to protect you.”
Mom said she would meet me later, to talk it all out. I stalled on the phone, not wanting her to hang up and leave me all alone in the apartment. Cass had left for work, and I had been remembering more. More memories, more terror.
I was ten years old again, on the playground at school, retrieving a dodgeball that had rolled into the bushes close to the road. A chain link fence separated the old back road and the cracked blacktop of the playground. A man had called my name, his voice deep and raspy. I remember pausing for a moment, looking around for the voice’s owner, but then my friends had called me back, yelling for the ball.
Sitting on my counter now were two pictures side by side, one with me staring right past the camera and another of me turning back to my friends, dodgeball clasped tightly in my hand.
I was terrified. I wanted to know where these pictures had come from, who had taken them, why were they stored away in a box in some forgotten closet in my childhood house?
Mom came over an hour later, and we sat in my half boxed up family room, two cups of tea sitting untouched on the boxes Cass and I had been using as end tables. Mom hadn’t said a word since she had gotten here, but I knew she was trying to piece together the story in her head, force it into some kind of comprehensible mass that she could then transfer to me. Neither of us wanted it, but I knew I had to hear it.
Her story began like this:
Mom had just escaped her abusive relationship with my birth father, moving out of his apartment to live with Frank. I was four years old. I don’t remember anything about my real dad, just mom’s occasional drunk mutterings, late at night.
Frank was nice enough. He raised me, paid for school, food, clothes. We were happy. The house we moved into was small, one story and built like a box, but the outside was painted a cheerful blue and mom busied herself in the front yard every day, maintaining a flourishing garden full of bright flowers and boxy bushes. It was a respectable house, and I had loved it as much as a kid could love any material object that wasn’t a toy.
My favorite part about the house was the front stoop. The house was raised up about two feet from the ground, with a crawl space underneath it. The front steps spanned this space, reaching up and up to meet the front door. When I was young, I always thought the space from the front door to the sidewalk was infinite, and jumping from the top always made me feel like I could fly. I went to school almost every day with bruised knees from not landing that jump.
Nothing truly strange ever happened until the night I woke up in the woods. I remember the next morning, the sun barely breaking over the trees as I stumbled across the street back to my house, crying into my mom’s shoulder as she held me close. That afternoon I brought the mail in, proud of being able to carry it myself.
Frank and Mom had been opening it together; I remember mom holding up a letter addressed to me. My name scrawled across the front of it, the rest of the envelope blank, no return address, no stamp. I was ecstatic that someone had sent me mail, snatching it from my mother’s hands and tearing open the envelope. A single photograph had fallen out, Frank had picked it up before I could get a glimpse. My parents had looked at it together, my mom letting out a choked sob, horror spreading across her face.
They hadn’t let me see it, and I had thrown a temper tantrum, crying and screaming about how unfair it was. They sent me to my room, and I remember sitting on my bed pouting and listening to my parents fight downstairs. I hadn’t understood then why mom was crying, why dad was calling the police, shouting loudly about the safety of his family. Now I do.
Every day for years, my parents would get envelopes of photographs, always addressed to me with no return address. My parents reported it to the police, but there wasn’t much they could do without any evidence besides the photographs. Mom and Frank never talked about it around me. They wanted me to have a normal childhood, worry-free. For years, they tried to find a way to move, but between Frank’s work, our tight budget, and my education, it had just never worked out.
And even though the photographs were worrying, no other actions had been made by my stalker, and eventually the photographs had faded into just another part of life for us.
Years later though, as I had been moving out for college and they had been packing up the house, Frank about been doing one last sweep, cleaning out the shed in the backyard—and the crawlspace under the house.
More photographs had been under there, tacked up to the boards right under my bedroom. They were gone now, taken into evidence by the cops that had swept the house long after I had started my new life at university. Mom hadn’t wanted to ruin my freshman year, so they had just put off telling me for years.
Now that I knew the story, that some crazy stalker had just enjoyed taking pictures of me for almost 14 years, I didn’t feel better. I had slept above him for years. But I had closure—sort of. The mysterious envelopes had stopped arriving after I had left for college, so mom and Frank had just let it be, packing up the other pictures into a box and putting it in my old room to gather dust.
My talk with my mom happened a month ago. Cass and I moved. She was ecstatic over the wedding trying to plan and prep, but I was barely sleeping, thrashing awake, screaming every night.
During the day, I was paranoid, constantly checking over my shoulder like a tic. I could swear that I heard the snap of a camera shutter from dark alleys and from behind bushes. Cass tried to be understanding, but there was never anyone in the alley or behind the bushes. My nightmares, were just that, nightmares.
It was too much, even for Cass. She started sleeping on the couch, and I’ve heard more than one whispered phone conversation between her and my mom.
I’ve been trying to make it up to her. If I act normal enough, maybe I can convince myself that this is all behind me, a bad relic of my childhood.
But today, a box came in the mail, small, about a quarter of the size of the one that stored all the photographs. Cass had brought it up to the apartment on her way home from work one evening. I was making dinner in the kitchen—fish tacos, Cass’s favorite—while she went through the mail. Tossing bills down on the table with vague, frustrated groans and rifling through magazines and ads, her usual routine.
Finally, when she could no longer amuse herself with the mail she slit open the box and froze. I had been washing my hands in the sink, and at the sudden loss of her commentary on our mail, I started to worry.
“What is it?” I asked, “Late bill?”
“Uh—” Cass was at a loss for words. Drying my hands off on a towel, I walked out of the kitchen to join her.
On the table was the opened box, inside of it were photographs. Photographs of me. Me in college, me eating lunch, me standing in the window of my dorm, me moving into my first apartment.
“Steph, look.” Cass picked up a plain white envelope from beneath the pictures. My name was scrawled on the front, no return address, no stamp. I took it from her silently, I was past denial at this point, hovering somewhere between terrified and panicked.
There was no escape.
I tore it open. Inside was a single picture. It was Cass and I at lunch the other day, taken from behind, Cass leaning towards me with a smile on her face, trying to steal one of my fries.
Oh God. Oh God Oh God Oh God.
We called the police, but again, just like mom and Frank had been told all those years ago, there wasn’t much they could do with photographs of just me.
Cass put her hand on my lower back, rubbing soothing circles, trying to keep me calm.
“Let’s just—let’s just go watch some TV, and calm down some.”
I followed Cass into the other room, curling up with her on the couch, not really paying attention to the old sitcom she was watching. I began to doze off.
The buzzer rang, startling me awake. It was our neighbor a few doors over asking if we could let him in. He had forgotten his key, he said. His voice was deep and raspy, just like the night all those years ago in the woods. Just like that day on the playground. Just like countless other times. Strangers bumping against me in a crowd. The man walking by me in the grocery store. The voice on the other end of the phone when a wrong number called. Always there, always following me. I had always thought it was just paranoia.
He buzzed again, asking if we could let him in, while I frantically called the police.
They arrived too late, he was long gone, but they did find a single picture tucked against the apartment’s voice box. It was Cass picking up the box from the apartment’s mail room that evening. Written on the back were the words “Two is better than one.”
The police took the photo for testing, but I know they won’t get anything, just like the other hundreds of pictures.
I don’t know what to do—how to escape.
And now he has his sights on Cass.
submitted by capmack to nosleep [link] [comments]

2019.07.15 20:09 ThatAuthorintheAttic College hidden camera dorm

I'm an author who's writing a scene that involves several illegalities, I'm just having trouble putting into words what each charge would be. I'm hoping someone would be able to help me once I've got the details down here.
The first character involved is a 15-year-old teen male, and his mentor at college (22-year-old male) has been engaging in a wide array of inappropriate behavior, including placing a hidden camera in his dorm, blackmail, drawing blood from the teen without the teen's consent and after he has clearly said 'no', drugging the teen using Rohypnol, sexual harassment, and attempted kidnapping. That last one involves being assaulted with a weapon and thrown in a car. This 22-year-old, in the process of trying to get away, then hit someone trying to cross the street in front of him. The pedestrian was in a crosswalk, and the kidnapper wasn't looking at the road as they approached. The kidnapper did try to stop, but because of the icy conditions of the road still managed to hit the person. The kidnapper then tried to flee the scene of the accident, but his back tires were blown out by two bullets. The kidnapper took the teen from the back of the car and tried to get away on foot, but was shot in the knee before being apprehended.
Other details that could be important include the teen being an overseas student attending college on a visa, and the college making the mentor his guardian without his knowledge or input. His guardian has since been legally changed and they've gone through the proper channels to make him a member of their family, which happened before the mentor engaged in the blood draw. Evidence taken from the mentor's room includes additional Rohypnol and clearly written plans that involved raping the teen.
Any insight into this would be much appreciated!
submitted by ThatAuthorintheAttic to legaladviceofftopic [link] [comments]

2019.06.28 23:13 EveningConcert Hidden camera college dorm

Hi guys,
Context, I'm a student who crashes at home during the vac with a younger sister (referred to as Sis). I like vintage clothing and spend a lot of time shopping for second hand designer items in thrift stores etc as a hobby. Even if I don't pay much for my clothes they are all irreplaceable.
Sis and I have always had a very open borrowing policy with clothes. At the beginning of the university year this year, I asked Sis if she could not borrow my clothes for a term, as I noticed some things were missing and I just wanted to gather them all in one place when I got back. I made clear that once I came back things would resume as usual.
During term I noticed Sis wearing one of my more expensive pieces in a social media post, and when I got back I found several bits in her wardrobe, which I hate as a lot of them have special washing requirements.
I got mad and said she could no longer use my clothes. She got angry and said I had no right to do that. I had completely stopped wearing her stuff, and she has never paid for any of my clothing.
Right before I left for uni, she stole some of my favourite pieces and hid them so I couldn't find them. I'm pretty sure she stole money as well.
When I got back, more pieces were missing, some of which I can't find anymore.
At this point, I'm pretty sure Sis is the asshole, but my mum is taking her side.
I get angry, and a bit petty, so I buy and install a security camera for my room
My mum now gets furious, as she uses my room as a guest room when I'm not around and throws it out. She promises that Sis will no longer borrow my clothes.
When I get back this term, I spot my clothes in her holiday photo's, and a bunch more in her room.
I've reinstalled the security camera, and am going to cable tie my wardrobe shut when I leave over the summer. I've also bought a lockable trunk to keep my favourite pieces in until I can move out.
Everyone is angry at me, saying that I am petty and selfish, but I am annoyed that my sister couldn't keep her hands to herself for three months as a favour to me, especially when I've been so generous before. I feel like they don't respect my room, my belongings or my wishes.
AITA for being so controlling over my clothes and reacting so harshly to Sis using them?
Edit: would like to say that the camera is obvious, I told my family I was putting up and why I was doing it, and it only shows the door so I can see who exits and enters the room. I can turn it off remotely and only store 24 hours of footage, so if needed I can turn it off if my mum has a guest.
Edit: oh wow so this really blew up.
So first of all camera was never hidden. Would like to clarify that. Informed whole family, hence the reason it got thrown out and only used for like a week.
I mainly bought it as a deterrent, and hopefully to prove to my mum how bad the stealing was which ended up being pointless thanks to social media.
Although I had reinstalled, have now taken it down after feedback in post.
Currently using the locked trunk instead, which my mum has allowed me to store in attick where it's harder to get to.
Am moving out soon anyway but due to the way my college dorm system works currently not an option.
Camera was petty, I know. But please stop complaining about it being hidden and read the damn post.
Edit: also thanks to everyone that responded. It's hard to be objective your own family, and the responses have helped me handle this better as I no longer feel like I'm going crazy, allowing me to take a step back and be more mature about it.
submitted by EveningConcert to AmItheAsshole [link] [comments]

2019.04.28 19:08 helpifuhave2nipples Hidden camera college dorm

Dad: (born during World War II)
• “All Asian women are ugly”, “most n*s will rob you blind”, "if you're not racist, you're not paying attention", and “if you speak Spanish, you’re here illegally”
• “All of my grandchildren must be baptized by their first birthdays”
• “What I want is what all four of you want”
• Neglected and molested as a child, overcompensates with enmeshment perhaps
• Refers to my favorite aunt as “fat and dense”; Mom talks to her sister every week across 1100 miles; Mom says nothing about “fat and dense”
• Refers to my cousins as liars, thieves, “out of control”, ungrateful losers who have bastard kids and smoke pot
• Says my Navy Captain Uncle has two rotten kids “because he was more interested in his career”; those two cousins are great, but disrespectful to my father
• “Nothing is more important than family”
• Laughs at people’s misfortunes (struggling to open a DVD, dropping a Coke, etc.)
• “All of my opinions are correct; everyone else’s opinion is just an opinion
• Loves to remind all of us of previous failures, fights, arguments, disappointments, breakups
• Anyone who speaks up gets “you can just hold it against us for the rest of our lives”
Mom: (born during World War II)
• “You have your antennae out too far”, “he/she means well”, “try not to let it bother you” are her mantras
• Responds to tattling by chastising the victim, and not the tattler
• Nitpicks me for trivial things but won’t defend me against abuse
• Grills me with “Have you”, “Did you”, “Will you”, “Are you gonna” questions about my life
• Criticizes my answers to these questions and/or says “You need to do that”
• Whole life is facade (perfect marriage, perfect career, perfect husband, perfect kids)
Monica: (born during Nixon Administration)
• Denies having a hidden agenda of control when she is just trying to help
• Has never apologized except always gives in to husband (according to my parents)
• Judgmental of people on TV, at the movies, at the mall, etc.
• Jumps to conclusions, waits to see if people correct her, then announces that “silence is consent”
• Knows best, throws jabs with statements disguised as questions (“do you know what you’re doing?”)
• Knows everything and nitpicks like a lawyer (Well, actually….)
• Lies through her teeth about arguments to our parents, teases me later about getting away with it
• Loves to project about others being bossy or stubborn
• Loves to question my suggestions for family outings (“that movie doesn’t look good”)
• Someone else’s ideas for same thing are brilliant (yeah that [SAME MOVIE] looks good)
• Loves to say “I never said that” even when confronted by several witnesses
• Loves to say “I was just kidding” when confronted with hurtful things she said
• Loves to say “I’m ignoring you” when I confront her
• When I ignore hurtful things from others, says “Did you hear that?”
• When I fight back to hurtful things, says “Shame on you”
• Loves to tattle on all of her siblings especially me
• Never does anything for anyone that doesn’t have strings attached
• Offers unsolicited advice (disguised as trying to help, knows I hate it, does it anyway with a smirk); pouts when unsolicited advice is not taken
• Facepalms if I make a mistake because she is “embarrassed to share blood with” me
• Provokes people, pretends to be victim
• Sides with sadistic youngest sister Phoebe against me when I defend myself (“That’s not very nice”)
• Sides with Phoebe against me when Phoebe provokes (“She’s got your number, loser”)
• Smirks, raises eyebrows, avoids eye contact when I defend myself against false accusations
• Taunts with rhetorical questions when I get upset (“aww poor baby….are you mad?”)
Rachel: (born during Nixon Administration)
• Learning disability, Facebook addict, also suffering from depression
• The ignored child for sure; we talk every week
• Has always been supportive of me, and that our family really is dysfunctional
Phoebe: (born during Carter Administration)
• When correct: interrupts, asks rhetorical questions, rubs it in, name calling, stares at people who she feels are wrong
• When wrong: changes the subject, answers questions with questions, never apologizes, avoids eye contact
• Seems to have Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder
• Slams doors, turns up TV, plugs her ears, silent treatment when I defend myself against false accusations
• Picked on in junior high so she pretended to be sick for 95 days in 7th grade (missed two days of 6th grade and one day of 8th grade); 17 doctors found nothing wrong with her “headaches and nausea”
• Called me “loser, dork, asshole, freak, moron, shut up dipshit” every 30 minutes I’ve spent with her for last 20 years
• Pretends to be offended that I root against the family jock school college football team
• Loves to say “get over it” to people in hardship
• When confronted with flaws, says “and you’re not?” or “and you don’t?”
• Points out flaws to everyone, hates it when people do it back
• Likes to say that I hate manual labor instead of brain work (who doesn’t?)
• Talks under her breath, “Right, uh huh, sure”, must have last word, loudest yeller wins
• Says “are you a shrink?” when I mention the abuse
• Critical about portion sizes, fat grams, desserts, sodium intake to everyone; can’t figure out why I’m overweight
Chandler (Me, third of four, only boy): (born during Carter Administration)
• I have always felt guilty about outdoing siblings; always told “you don’t want to do that” or “you can’t do that” when I had a dream or a goal
• Won a national title in an academic competition (against 1200 competitors)
• Admitted to an Ivy League school but pressured not to go by Monica
• Went to the family jock school instead of my nerd school
• Underachiever (smart enough to graduate Ivy League pre-med, lazy enough to graduate easy family jock school with a 2.47 GPA in an easy major instead)
• Keep quiet about problems due to minimization and nobody listens to me
• Cheated on by four different women before meeting my wife
• No friends until I was 23 (except for one high school mentor)
• Eight suicidal episodes before meeting my wife
• Had trouble leaving abusive bosses several times
• I can’t forgive people who aren’t sorry
• The whole family is “tired of his crap”
Here are pivotal days contributing to my dysfunctional psyche.
December 25, 1975: Dad humiliates my then 14 year old cousin whose pants were apparently too high (“you have to unzip your pants to blow your nose”); cousin cried in another room, nobody defended him; Dad brags and laughs about it monthly ever since.
December 25, 1976: Dad slapped Monica full force at 4 years old in front of 20 people, she had asked “is this all the presents I get?”. Apparently, she was the only greedy toddler in world history. Dad has bragged about this one monthly ever since as well.
October 14, 1985: We move across the country for Dad’s new job, against the will of all five of us. Eight year old I am saying goodbye to my childhood friend, and Dad announces to everyone that I’m “lazy and out to lunch”.
May 22, 1986: Dad humiliates Monica regarding the national anthem at a baseball game. “Anthem” is the word she misspelled at the fifth grade spelling bee in November 1982. “Look, Monica they’re playing the national a-n-t-h-E-m, not U, E!”.
February 26, 1987: My maternal grandfather had passed away about 36 hours earlier, and I was humiliated in front of 20 people in my grandma’s living room. Four months earlier as a fourth grader, I had tried cooking an egg in the pan in the microwave, not knowing that cause sparks. Mom brought up the four month old incident, called me “Chef Boyardee” in front of people we hadn’t seen in years. Nobody laughed except for Monica and her facepalming. Mom never humiliated her other three children in front of 20 people, so why me? My grandpa was a bully, and I suspect my mother wasn’t all that upset about his demise.
May 20, 1987: Basketball in the driveway against the kid three years older and two feet taller. I drive to the basket and my shot is swatted away like a mosquito at a family picnic. Dad and Monica laugh hysterically, and Monica says “he won’t do that again.” Dad ponders the next five years why I am not aggressive enough on the basketball court. I did make it to the final 24 out of 124 players for the eighth grade team on November 9, 1990. Several classmates remark that I’m a far better player when my father is not in attendance.
July 27, 1988: Dad teases 14 year old Rachel about her acne for days, and she finally snaps to shut up about it. He spins her around, throws her up against the bunk bed and her head snaps back; “Did you have hot dogs today? We all know nitrates turn you into a real bitch!” I’m 11 and I’m next if I defend her. “Nobody tell your mother about this.”
December 6, 1988: My first organized basketball game. I dribble the ball off my left foot with 30 seconds remaining in a tie game, and we lose by two. Cue Monica lecturing how “humiliating it must be to lose the game for your team.” The radio is off so I know my parents heard this. Self-confidence problems in sports continue for years.
June 26, 1989: The girl across the street told 9 year old Phoebe about an awesome museum, which turned out to be a disappointment. Phoebe pouts for hours, Dad slaps her to knock it off as dozens of tourists are walking by. She’s in a better mood 30 minutes later. Dad always wins.
June 27, 1989: Phoebe (recently completed fourth grade) humiliated me on vacation by telling everyone that I had asked Julie to dance two months earlier, and was rejected. The truth is, I had chickened out on asking Julie, thanks to severely low self-esteem (wonder why?), not your normal middle school jitters like people thought. Mom and Dad just sat there in the van, and Monica whispered “It’s true isn’t it?”. Not the most mature response for a 17 year old girl.
August 8, 1990: Monica is about to go off to college, and has been generally anxious and bitchy all summer. Dad has had enough, puts both his hands around her throat, and shoves her head up against the kitchen cupboard four times at full force. I’m 13 and just stand there or else I’m next. Mom comes home from work, Monica is bawling with a massive headache, “You know your dad has a temper”.
March 16, 1991: Dad yelled at Phoebe at 11 years old at the movies because she didn’t want to see that film and wanted to stay home. Forced her to go anyway and the Silent Treatment towards each other prevails for months. Saturday night is ruined, and Dad just HAS to win.
July 17, 1991: College freshman Monica shoves my eighth grade feet aside on the cooler in the van on vacation. I do the same in return, and she violently kicks me resulting in purple golf ball on the outside of my left ankle. Mom says we “need to try harder to get along”. I have trouble walking for two weeks, but I’m “milking it”.
September 14, 1991: I am grilled with 11 questions about my diet since Friday morning at a Saturday morning overnight cross country meet. What I ate wasn’t good enough, and I told my coach if Dad apologizes, my running career will continue. No apology ever comes, and my last cross country meet is on October 19, 1991. I loved cross country with a passion. We had 87 male runners, and I was 11th best on the team as a freshman, not good enough apparently.
January 12, 1992: We all ride five hours to watch Monica compete in her college sport. Phoebe is bawling on Sunday night (picked on in seventh grade), can we PLEASE spend the night and miss school on Monday. Dad says we need to get back, and I said “karma bitch!” regarding the remarks from June 1989 above. Phoebe is screaming at me, and Mom tells me to stop provoking her; no comments about the behavior from almost three years ago, and I tell her so. Mom sighs to just be quiet and let’s go home.
February 4, 1992: Phoebe blows up at Dad “so you think I’m faking” being sick; the only person who mentioned faking is Phoebe. This was followed by two months of silent treatment to each other.
August 18, 1992: My contact lens rips in half on vacation. I ask from the back of the van if anyone has tissue, solution, anything at all. Nobody answers me, then 20 year old Monica and 13 year old Phoebe snicker. I’m quiet for the next 400 miles all the way home. I just don’t matter.
April 8, 1993: I was reaching for a cassette on the floor of my car, took my eyes off the road, and 16 year old me crashed into a brick mailbox, totaling my dad’s ten year old Chevrolet. Phoebe announces this the next day at Monica’s competition. Monica facepalms, everyone stares at me, and I leave the dinner table crying. I had whiplash for a month, and I was charged with an improper lane change. It was removed from my record 365 days later because of no further violations, and my mentoacademic coach wrote the judge a letter of recommendation. It used to be brought up yearly by one of my sadistic relatives, but I put a stop to it in the Nineties. We haven’t discussed it since.
January 17, 1994: I accidentally left behind a bag of toiletries in my hotel room for an academic competition. For two hours one way, my dad lectures me on being more careful, etc. because he had business in that same city and I had Martin Luther King Day off from school. I offered to pay the postage to send it home, but he obviously preferred the lecture. Monica was home for Spring Break two months later, and he told her the story, and she facepalmed. I asked why she wasn’t at Daytona Beach with some friends, and then “Oh that’s right, you don’t have any friends”. Mom told me to apologize to Monica, and I refused. The last thing I heard leaving the room was Monica asking “why is he so disrespectful to me?”.
July 13, 1994: Monica and Phoebe force feed me twelve pairs of sunglasses to try on while on vacation. Try these, try these, and try these. I walk away, which is followed by “don’t ignore me asshole” in front of a dozen customers. Mom says “they’re talking to you” and Dad says “tough to blame him for ignoring the two of you.” Then I, at the age of 17, bought my own fucking sunglasses without their help later that day. “He’s so stubborn, what an asshole.”
December 22, 1994: Julie (1989 crush from above) and I are on our sixth date. She dumps me in my driveway. I’m not heartbroken, and we’re still friends years later. Monica asks me the next day at the dinner table “what were you two doing last night in the driveway for so long?” in front of everybody. So I looked down at my food, and said “I was getting dumped”. So Monica started pointing and laughing at me. My parents pressed for details, I refused, and they never said a word to Monica about her behavior. Monica was 23, and still four years away from her first date.
June 14, 1995: I’m at a national academic competition near Monica’s college, so she and Phoebe tag along (just what I was hoping for). I bought a giant bag of candy at the hotel to distribute to teammates, friends, opponents, chaperones, etc. Monica and Phoebe chastise me in front of everyone:** “Asshole”, “Yeah really”, “you were going to eat all of that by yourself”, “yeah right…give it to everybody else”, “sure you were, loser”. Nobody in attendance defended me. I cried recounting the story to my parents when I got home, but they said to let it go.
August 12, 1995: Leave for college for freshman year at Family Jock School. Cried myself to sleep because I don’t want to go, but maybe I can solve my awful relationship with Monica. Dad insists that having an off campus apartment and living with her and having no friends is better than fighting with a total stranger and having lots of friends. This is all a charade to pretend we have a great family. My major is chosen for me, and Monica opens an account (VP tells me that she illegally monitors, I refuse to press charges) in my name because she is a bank teller. I have now had no say in my school, my job, my major, my housing, or even my bank. I press on because we’re a “close family”.
August 15, 1995: Monica reveals that I am living with her and attending Family Jock School not Ivy League Dream School because Mom and Dad don’t love me; I somehow always knew but I’m upset anyway. This happens right after I’m fully unpacked.
Fall 1995 through Summer 1997: Monica found me a job at the family jock school that I never wanted that I struggled with for 2 years; I was yelled at dozens of times by an abusive boss (her friend) right in front of her, she told me “you need to pay attention and do better”. I’ve had trouble leaving abusive relationships my whole life.
November 3, 1995: Falsely accused of stealing a radio at awful job above, exonerated, no apology. Suicidal thoughts so I head to the University Medical Center for Trip #1.
November 23, 1995: Monica announced at Thanksgiving that I stole a radio. My dad talks to my boss’s boss in person a couple weeks later; boss’s boss says “Monica is such a bitch because that isn’t true” and walks away. I spend the rest of Thanksgiving Weekend in my childhood bedroom, mostly crying. But I was defended in December when my dad picked me up after Finals.
November 27, 1995: Suicidal thoughts so I head to the University Medical Center for Trip #2.
February 1, 1996: Recent birthday with no acknowledgement, so suicidal thoughts. I head to the University Medical Center for Trip #3.
August 31, 1996: Monica insisted that I walk a mile past a football stadium to meet up with the family before the game; I asked to be picked up or to meet AT THE STADIUM and she said “be at the McDonald’s” 16 times in the next 60 seconds and wouldn’t let me talk. Silent Treatment from Monica and snickers from Dad all weekend. “Son, she’s in charge, there’s nothing we can do about it.”
September 4, 1996: Suicidal thoughts so I head to the University Medical Center for Trip #4.
February 3, 1997: Recent birthday with no acknowledgement, so suicidal thoughts. I head to the University Medical Center for Trip #5.
November 22, 1997: Monica meets up with Phoebe and my former coworker, who all acknowledge I am “the family loser” (Phoebe tells the story a few days later). I suspected that was my nickname behind my back, and now I have proof.
November 30, 1997: Bawling in my childhood house because of Phoebe’s revelation from abusive colleagues I thought were out of my life. Freshman Phoebe drives me back to the dorm, I’m bawling the entire way.
December 2, 1997: Suicidal thoughts. I head to the University Medical Center for Trip #6.
May 10, 1998: Monica spends the entire summer trying to break up Phoebe’s relationship with Mike (a guy Monica had known for a long while who never made a move on her); intentionally spread a false rumor that Mike was a child molester for dating someone younger; Mike is 31 and Phoebe is 18. I was there when Monica said that about Mike, and 30 people are horrified at the restaurant because it’s an engagement party (for people I didn’t know, I was just there because Monica said there’d be extra food).
August 6, 1998: Stuck in traffic in downtown Chicago on a Friday afternoon because I “have terrible map skills”; said “can I see the map please?” 17 times in the next 25 minutes before Dad asked her to stop; insisted on pulling over at 5:**30 on vacation so that I wouldn’t get to see my girlfriend the next day; Monica said she didn’t feel well but Dad insisted we keep going. Mom is puzzled by Monica’s vague symptoms.
August 25, 1998: Phoebe’s boyfriend Mike calls me and says he’s “had enough” because Phoebe just gave him a 15 minute lecture about the “correct” way to cook mac & cheese “skim milk dumbass”; they break up two months later. Monica is over the moon because “I warned Mike that Phoebe is an awful human being”.
September 4, 1998: Monica took me five hours to see my girlfriend on Labor Day weekend and intentionally went through downtown to delay me an hour.
November 1, 1998: Monica goes on her first date; two months shy of turning 27.
November 23, 1998: College girlfriend dumps me, and I’m puzzled beyond belief. I found out later she had been fucking an ex during our entire relationship. Worst Thanksgiving ever.
November 30, 1998: Suicidal thoughts. I head to the University Medical Center for Trip #7.
December 21, 1998: Ex emails me that she’s sorry and wants to get back together. I show up at her work (where we met) to talk about that, and she calls the police. I produce the email, and the cop tells her to not contact me again.
December 24, 1998: I find out about my ex cheating from her ex on America Online. It’s 5am on Christmas Eve so I went to bed. 36 hours later, my dad tells me I’ve been “moping and need to get over it”. Merry Christmas to all.
February 7, 1999: Monica took me to a concert as a birthday gift, said that I must be cheap because I thanked her verbally instead of taking her to a concert with a $38 ticket. I make $7 an hour at a new job (non-abusive boss though). Monica’s now husband tells Rachel he was dreading meeting me, so the concert was a setup from the start.
February 27, 1999: I was the only one not dating someone; Monica asked me “is your hand tired?” in front of about 20 people (roommates, siblings, parents, friends, etc.).
May 1, 1999: College roommate’s ex-girlfriend calls me a loser (due to my depression and social isolation) on my college graduation day in front of about 50 people. Everyone laughs, and I walk across the stage anyway because I’m a pussy. I receive a letter the next week that I still have one more class to go, and I won’t be graduating until August. The dean says I “fell through the cracks”. My relatives to this day think my severe depression that semester was due to my college girlfriend.
July 17, 1999: My college ex shows up at Julie’s (girl I dated from 1994 above) wedding (the college ex knew the wedding date and location because Julie got engaged while we were dating). I call the cops, then talk to her anyway while waiting for them. The cops show up, tell her to stay away from me, and I refuse to press charges.
August 6, 1999: My actual graduation day, but we head out of town. Phoebe humiliates me on vacation in the car in front of Mom and Dad for having a CD collection not female enough to suit her. Phoebe got mad and told me to “shut up” when I named female CDs that I owned; this one was my fault because why was a 20 year old man on vacation with three such toxic people?
August 13, 1999: The entire family is heading to my ex’s place of work; I refuse to go because the cops said not to go. My family doesn’t know this, because I don’t trust any of them. Phoebe says “Oh, GET OVER IT!” in front of all those people and Dad says “Yeah, really son!”. To this day, they still don’t know the truth.
October 25, 1999: I come home from my first job out of college, still wearing my necktie; “why don’t you take your tie off?” for the 50th workday in a row; I change into a T-shirt and sweats, still wearing the necktie; Dad tells me I’m disrespectful.
November 25, 1999: I refuse to go to a local tourist attraction with the family, and you can understand why. Phoebe calls me “a loser”, Monica calls me “an antisocial asshole”, and nobody defends me. Thanksgiving is my favorite day.
January 7, 2000: I walk in on my ex riding her ex on her living room couch. She and I had agreed to be monogamous a week earlier. I had surprised her with flowers and candy on her off day as a nurse. Lock the door, you idiots.
March 6, 2000: Girlfriend of a month confesses to me that she cheated on me with her neighbor. I had suspected something earlier, and she said I was crazy.
December 8, 2000: Girlfriend of eighth months confesses to me that she cheated on me with her best friend’s ex-boyfriend, but she wants to work things out with me. I tell her to pay the bill, and then I walk out to my car and drive away. If only Dad knew that her parents were born in Taiwan. He’d never speak to me again.
December 24, 2000: Monica accuses me of driving all four of my exes to cheat on me. She mentions this during the gift exchange to nobody’s interest but mine.
March 3, 2001: Suicide thoughts. Hospital trip #8 via sleeping pills; I woke up in a cold sweat and drove myself to the hospital; I went to rehab where I was surrounded by people who had lost their homes, their marriages, millions of dollars combined. I told the counselor I’ve been scared straight. I haven’t taken sleeping pills since.
November 5, 2001: First date with my now wife Janice.
November 22, 2001: Monica and Phoebe get in a huge fight at Thanksgiving because they both think the other puts me down too much. Rachel and I haven’t laughed so hard in years. Monica and Phoebe don’t speak until Phoebe is a bridesmaid in Monica’s wedding a year later. On a side note, I think Monica has trouble making friends.
February 11, 2002: A lawyer in a different county called me that my identity had been stolen. I was falsely arrested the next day at my financial analyst job for not returning a moving truck that someone had rented in my name. Mom lectured me (“Uh hello???”), after paying the bail of course. The guy was charged with eight counts of forgery, and I successfully sued the moving company for negligence. The checkbook and the signature were too completely different last names. My mom is comfortable bitching at her sister, at my sister Rachel, and at me; nobody else.
June 12, 2002: My dad and I get in an argument regarding Janice and I moving 200 miles away for school (my masters and her bachelors). I don’t want him “helping” us move because he takes over instead of helping. Getting my masters is my opportunity to shed the demons of The Family Jock School. Janice and I have pleasant memories of going to school there.
August 3, 2002: Dad is bossy and complains we are all moving too slow like I knew he would. I let it go.
September 20, 2002: I started shaving my head when I was 25 because I was losing my hair; Monica told me it looked awful. At her bachelorette party (one friend from high school and my now wife), Monica tells my now wife that “Chandler has always hated me”. I let it go.
October 5, 2002: “Cheerleaders are a waste of human flesh” very loud from my dad at my graduate school’s football game; dozens of people turn around and glare at him; he rubs it in every 30 minutes all day because we had walked 100 yards, and I had to go back to the apartment to get the tickets.
November 16, 2002: Monica is bossy all weekend for her wedding, especially towards me. I let it go.
September 18, 2003: Phoebe is in my graduate school city on business. We meet up for dinner, and it is one putdown after another all night. I let it go.
November 23, 2003: Dad is doubled over in his recliner laughing at my wife’s family and their backwards logistics for my wife’s birthday party. It involves driving 20 miles past the restaurant to their house and then coming back to get my wife instead of just meeting at the restaurant. It is humiliating, and I let it go.
December 12, 2003: I get my masters even though I should have refused to walk across the stage due to so much up above. I get a speeding ticket after my graduation dinner, and Mom announces from the back seat that Dad and I both need to slow down.
March 5, 2004: Phoebe humiliates me as I watch my favorite NBA team down at the end of the third quarter. “Do we HAVE to watch this, loser???”, so I change the channel so she’ll shut up. This becomes relevant in a few years.
August 14, 2004: Mom humiliates my Dad on vacation with the “proper” way to load batteries into the camera. Nobody else was there.
August 28, 2004: I accidentally reveal to Rachel that Mom has breast cancer; everyone knew but bawling Rachel, who “now has evidence” that’s she’s not part of the family. Phoebe is horrified when I accidentally spilled the beans hands on her face Home Alone style (“Oh my god oh my god oh my god you dumb fucking loser”). I’m no saint because I shove her out of the computer chair on to the floor, and punch her in the head four times.
December 24, 2004: Monica humiliates middle sister Rachel with FIVE suggestions of “I can see up your kilt” (the first four were ignored because Rachel and her Scottish husband like to dress up in kilts for special occasions). Monica pretended to be the victim and sulked when middle sister Rachel (we are very close) snapped at her to shut up about the kilt. Monica was furious when I told her that she should have curtailed the kilt comments because it's Christmas Eve. Phoebe gives dirty looks to me and to Rachel all night. Rachel cries the rest of the gift exchange, and Monica gives me the silent treatment for two years.
March 6, 2005: Mom asked me 17 questions about my diet, and I humored her and answered them anyway. “You aren’t drinking enough milk” she says after my doctor said I’m at risk for a second kidney stone. The doctor says I should have cheese occasionally, milk never, and take calcium vitamins. It’s humiliating to be interrogated by someone who’s not a doctor, followed by being chastised for doing what’s best for my health.
May 7, 2005: I called Phoebe (I don’t know the fuck why) to tell her Janice and I are engaged. She asks if I called Monica. I changed the subject to not give her the satisfaction. Dick move by Phoebe.
December 10, 2005: Dad tells Monica over the phone (while I’m there): “You treat your brother like a child, and he’s tired of it.” Monica gives him the silent treatment for weeks.
April 22, 2006: My Wedding day. Dad humiliates my groomsman’s wife regarding my transportation to the wedding. I take her out to dinner a couple weeks later as an apology. Monica, Phoebe, Mom, Dad all make passive aggressive comments all weekend, but nobody responds. Mom told me to make nice with Monica during the MotheGroom dance, knowing that I wouldn’t make a scene. Dick move by Mom.
December 23, 2006: I call Monica to bury the hatchet; through tears she says, “My heart is ALWAYS in the right place”. I laugh and she hangs up.
November 22, 2007: Go back to March 5, 2004. The football game is a blowout, so I change the channel. Phoebe abusively says that Rachel’s husband is watching that. I get up and leave, and then I stay away from Phoebe for months. My parents have Christmas without me and Janice.
March 2, 2008: Mom and Janice are done shopping, and waiting outside the store. My dad is in the front seat with me. My mom is 5-10, and my wife is 5-6. My dad says “let’s pretend they’re prostitutes….how much for the tall one and how much for the fat one?”. I drive the four of us home in silence, and my parents leave. My mom and my wife both want to know why I’m so quiet. So I tell them, and my wife and my mom both say to let it go.
May 11, 2008: Janice and I pay for a Mother’s Day day trip for our mothers. The entire day is Dad criticizing my high school mentor for being a loser (because the mentor tells me not to put up with the abuse); mentor is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father. Dad criticizes my driving, the restaurant, the tourist attraction itself, the entire day is ruined. He closes the day by saying “Phoebe didn’t do anything wrong at Thanksgiving”. I don’t speak to my Dad until Christmas. I see Phoebe at Christmas, but I don’t apologize.
October 19, 2008: My father tells my wife over the phone regarding the March 2nd comments from seven months earlier: “You have to understand, my mother didn’t love me, and I had to pay back her social security debts.”
January 11, 2009: Mom sends me a long email that says “you seem too busy for us” somewhere in the middle.
May 25, 2009: The last time I have spoken with Monica and Phoebe; no particular reason.
May 1, 2010: My mom’s retirement party at Phoebe’s condo. Janice and I do not attend.
July 28, 2010: Janice has breast cancer.
September 17, 2010: Janice has her lumpectomy, and I insist that I will not argue with anyone at the hospital. Mom and Dad are not there. Rachel wishes her well on Facebook, Monica and Phoebe do not.
September 22, 2010: Therapy with a wonderful shrink named Marilyn begins.
January 29, 2011: Janice is cancer free, and she has been ever since.
May 12, 2012: Janice, Mom, Dad, and I have dinner for Mother’s Day. I hadn’t seen my parents in over two years. Things go well for a few months.
December 30, 2012: Mom and Dad come over for Christmas gifts. I remark to my Dad that I’ve never seen him wear jeans before. He remarks that “you’d know that if you weren’t gone for two years”. I don’t know why I let him in the house anyway.
December 31, 2012: Janice is pregnant and due on September 2nd, we don’t tell anyone until 16 weeks because it’s high risk. I spend her entire pregnancy asking for advice from every good father I know.
August 18, 2013: Our son Jeffrey is born at nine pounds, and he is perfect in every way.
August 16, 2014: We have 40 people at Jeffrey’s first birthday party. Dad humiliates me when he announces that “your bald head is ruining all the photos”. It’s hard to regard that as “only teasing”, given his track record.
February 24, 2015: My monthly visits to my shrink Marilyn end. The last thing she tells me is “nobody has the right to mistreat you, no matter who they are.”
December 30, 2017: I leave the room while Dad tells a story I’ve heard literally 100 times. I’m disrespectful apparently.
May 14, 2018: Dad announces the only reason we stopped by for Mother’s Day is it’s on the way home from my in-laws.
April 19, 2019: Things are better, we’ve paid off a lot of debt, I start a new job soon, and I’m scared for my future anyway. I haven’t seen my parents in almost a year, and I don’t feel bad about it; neither do they to my knowledge. I’m at a loss for how to proceed.
I know I am some kind of weirdo for remembering these 97 dates, but it's also painful to relive them roughly twice a week. It's so much negativity, so many putdowns, so much emotional abuse, so much sadistic cruelty at my expense. Rachel and Janice are very close, Janice tolerates my relatives, and they tolerate her. I have anxiety about my new job because I have had 27 employers (20 contract, 7 permanent) since graduating in 1999. Depression looks like laziness from a distance. I'm starting to believe in myself for the first time since 1995.
Please help with any advice, suggestions, directions to other subreddits, analysis. I'm trying to figure out if I can continue putting this stuff behind me, or perhaps I deserved it on some level. They would all flip the fuck out if they knew I was posting this.
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