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- [00:00]
Narrator
Have you seen any dinosaurs? What kind of question is that?
- [00:05]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
On August 14th I think that our neighborhood has moved. We're in the past. Summer Ends on Oak street run from producer J.J. abrams, Anne Hathaway, Ewan McGregor we're gonna survive the end of Oak Street. Directed by David Robert Mitchell. Rated PG13 may be inappropriate for children under 13.
- [00:29]
August the 14th Plan B is a backup birth control option that's there for you when things don't go according to plan. It specifically works after unprotected sex and before pregnancy occurs by temporarily delaying ovulation. Plan B is available nationwide at all major retailers and through delivery apps like DoorDash. No ID, prescription or age requirement. It's the number one OB GYN recommended brand of emergency contraception and it won't impact your future fertility. That's freedom to be Use as directed
- [01:00]
Narrator
hey, it's Ryan Reynolds here from Mint Mobile. Now, I was looking for fun ways to tell you that Mint's offer of unlimited Premium Wireless for $15 a month is back. So I thought it would be fun if we made $15 bills, but it turns out that's very illegal. So there goes my big idea for the commercial. Give it a try@mintmobile.com switch upfront payment
- [01:22]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
of $45 for three months, $90 for six months, or $180 for a 12 month plan required $15 per month equivalent to taxes and fees. Extra initial plan term only greater than 50gb. Me slow when network is busy see
- [01:30]
Narrator
Terms hey wel Stories and Rain. Do you want to listen ad free? Just subscribe on Spotify for $2.99 a month. Now turn out the lights, enjoy the stories, and enjoy the rain. To really get my story, you have to understand the layout of my third floor landing. It's not particularly large, but it's designed in a way that's just unsettling enough to stand stick with you. There's a single narrow staircase that creaks and groans as you climb it. At the top, the landing forms a T shape. To the left, there's my office, where I sometimes work late into the night. To the right, my bedroom, with a door that's always just a little harder to close than it should be. Straight ahead is the bathroom, with its frosted glass shower and a small high window that lets in just enough light during the day to give the space an eerie, sterile glow. That bathroom has always felt a bit off to me. Maybe it's the way the sound of the water echoes against the tiles, or how the shower door sticks Sometimes, even though there's no visible damage. Whatever it is, I've never been entirely comfortable in there. But I chalked it up to my overactive imagination. One night around 10pm, I decided to take a shower before heading to bed. It had been a long day, and I just wanted to wash off the stress and crawl under the covers. The glass panels on my shower are that kind of concave and convex frosted glass that makes everything on the other side look like a blurry, distorted shadow. I always thought it was kinda cool. It was like looking through a funhouse mirror or something. But that night, it would prove to be anything but fun. The water was warm and the steam was starting to fog up the glass. I was lost in my thoughts. I should have said this to this person. I should have said that. Letting the rhythmic patter of the water calm my nerves as I thought about the events of the day, the conversations that I had. Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something. A shape. At first I thought it was just the way the steam was clinging to the glass, creating patterns that played tricks on my eyes. But as I focused, I realized it wasn't random. It was a hand. It wasn't just any hand, though. It was dark, almost black, and seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light of the bathroom. The fingers were long and thin, too long to belong to anyone I knew. It wasn't pressed against the glass like you might imagine, but instead hung in the air just on the other side of the shower door. My heart started pounding in my chest. My family is all pale. The kind of pale that burns after five minutes in the sun. This hand. It definitely did not belong to anyone in my house. I froze, my mind racing. Maybe it was a shadow from outside. Maybe one of the neighbor's trees had bent in the window, casting a strange silhouette through the bathroom window. But no. The hand moved slowly and deliberately. It tilted almost as if it was waving to me. And then it did something I'll never forget. It reached for the light switch. The switch was just outside the shower, mounted on the wall near the door. I watched, paralyzed, as this hand seemed to stretch impossibly far, its fingers brushing the edge of the switch. And then, with a soft click, the light went out. Pitch black. The sound of the water hitting the tiles suddenly felt deafening. My breath was ragged and I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. Let me tell you, being plunged into darkness while you're in the shower is terrifying. Especially when you know someone's in the room and they turned off the light. I have never felt fear like that before. It wasn't the kind of fear you get from a jump scare in a movie or a sudden loud noise. This was primal, bone deep terror. I was completely vulnerable, literally naked and trapped in a small dark space with something that I couldn't explain or control. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, not daring to move. The only sound was the water, which had suddenly taken on an almost slight, sinister quality. I kept straining my ears for any other noise. A creak in the floor, a footstep. But there was nothing. Just the water and my own panicked breathing. Finally I realized I have to do something. So I slowly and cautiously reached out, slid the shower door open. The cold air from the bathroom hit me like a slap in the face, making me shiver. I stepped out onto the tile floor, my wet feet making soft squelch noises that seemed unbearably loud. In this silence I felt my way to the light switch, half expecting that hand to still be there. When my fingers finally found it, I flipped it up, flooding the room with light once again. The bathroom was empty. I checked the door and it was still locked from the inside. I looked under the sink, as ridiculous as that sounds, and there was nothing there behind the shower curtain, even in the small cabinet where I kept my towels. No one. No sign that anyone had been in the bathroom with me. The relief that washed over me was almost enough to make me laugh. Almost. But then I remembered the stairs. The staircase leading up to the third floor is old and wooden. It creaks like crazy with even the slightest weight on it. If someone had come up while I was in the shower, I would have heard it. And if they had left, I would have heard that too. But I didn't hear anything. I didn't sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that hand again. Those impossibly long fingers reaching for the light switch. I stayed in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, my ears straining for the slightest sound. But the house was silent. Nothing like that has happened since. I've tried to explain it away, to rationalize what I saw. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe I was just overtired. And my Athletic Brewing Company crafts award winning non alcoholic beers for those who want to be part of every round. With over 185 flavor awards, they're exceptional NA beers that fit your lifestyle and any social occasion. Summer's full of good times and Athletic fits right in. Go to athleticbrewing.com to have brews delivered to your door or find them at a bar, restaurant or store near you. Near Beer Athletic Brewing Co. Fit for all times.
- [09:07]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
Introducing Meta Glasses.
- [09:09]
Narrator
You have questions. They've got answers. Hey Meta, what's the capital of Peru?
- [09:15]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
Lima. How do you say where's the restroom in Spanish? Dondes talvano. Hey, Meta, is a hot dog a sandwich? Technically, no. Spiritually, yes.
- [09:27]
Narrator
Hey Meta, what should I do with my life?
- [09:30]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
That's one of life's biggest questions. What do you think? Ask anything with the new Meta Glasses. This episode is brought to you by Facebook. So you were scrolling on Marketplace and there it was. The bike you'd been searching for. You sent a message and it turned out the seller was super chatty, kind of funny, and an avid cyclist. The next thing you know, you. You're in a cycling crew. Well, a community cycling group. The thing about Facebook, you might find more than what you're looking for. From a browse to a bike ride this summer. Find more on Facebook.
- [10:06]
Narrator
Eind played a cruel trick on me, but deep down, I know what I saw. And every time I'm in that bathroom now, I'm terrified. Especially when I take a shower, half expecting to see the hand again. Sometimes, late at night, I'll hear a creak on the stairs. It's probably just the house settling right? Maybe the wind rattling the old wood. But every once in a while I'll catch myself holding my breath, waiting to hear the sound of the light switch clicking off. Driving to pick up a friend who was at a cabin party about 40 miles west to where I lived sounded simple enough. I was doing them a huge favor. It was late after all. Close to 2am the back roads were as dark and lonely as you could possibly imagine. No street lights, just the faint glow of my headlights bouncing off the trees and the occasional glint of an animal's eyes in the underbrush. I had been on these kinds of roads before, but something about this night felt different. Heavier somehow. As I navigated the winding path, my phone buzzed in the cup holder. A text from my friend. Bad signal. I'll stay by the road. Just honk when you're close. Great, I thought finding this random cabin in the middle of nowhere was going to be a lot more challenging without gps. I adjusted my grip on the wheel and kept going, trying not to overthink the unsettling quiet. That's when I saw it. A red four door sedan parked haphazardly on the side side of the road. All of its doors were wide open, and inside, slumped in the seats, were Four figures. At first I thought they might just be asleep, as weird as that would be. Oh, wait. Maybe they're drunk or something. But as I slowed down, I noticed their heads were tilted at odd angles, like their necks couldn't support them. None of them were moving. Not a twitch, not a breath. Just limp in the dark. I suddenly felt a cold shiver. I didn't stop driving, but I could not help staring as I rolled past. The headlights didn't show much, but the scene was enough to make my skin crawl. Who leaves their car doors open like that? Who were they? Why were they sitting in the car like that? Was something wrong? I'm not proud of this, but I did not have the guts to stop and see if they needed help. My mind raced with the possibilities. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe they were trying to lure me. Something inside me told me, instinctually, keep driving. I tried calling my friend again, and there was no signal. Just static and the faint hum of the engine as I drove deeper into the woods. Eventually, I reached the end of the road where the cabin was supposed to be. Except it wasn't. The cabin wasn't there. No lights, no sounds of a party. Nothing. I reached a dead end, frustrated and a little spooked. I turned around as there was nothing else I could do and headed back the way I came. Maybe I missed the turn. By now it was close to 3am the road felt even darker somehow as I approached the spot where I had seen that red car, I felt my pulse quicken. The car was still there, but something was different. Only the front passenger door was open now, and the figures inside were not slumped anymore. They were sitting upright, heads turned toward the road, toward me. I slowed down almost against my will, trying to process what I was seeing. Their faces were blank, completely expressionless. But their eyes were locked on me, following my car as I crept past at about 10 miles per hour. It was not just a glance either. It was as if they were waiting for me, expecting me to drive by again. The air inside my car was thick and heavy, like it was pressing down on my chest. I couldn't look away, even though every part of me wanted to. As soon as I was past them, I hit the gas, my tires crunching against the gravel as I sped away. My hands were shaking on the wheel. My heart felt like it was about to explode in my chest. I didn't care about the cabin or my friend anymore. That was just too much. I just wanted to get out of there. When I finally got home, I sat in my driveway for what felt like an hour at least. I thought about calling someone, maybe the police. But what would I even say? Maybe I could just call the non emergency line and just tell them about something weird I saw. I couldn't shake the feeling though, that there was something wrong. Couldn't explain it. I still can't. The next day I called my friend to see if he had made it home. And I apologized profusely. He had, thankfully. Apparently he had gotten a ride with someone else. I wanted to tell him about what I saw. About the figures that I saw inside the car. But I stopped myself, not really sure why. Something just made me feel like I should not talk about it. Like talking about it would make it worse somehow. Even now, years later, I avoid that stretch of road. I don't know who or what I saw that night. And I don't think I really want to. Sometimes I do want to. The curiosity of what I saw. It sucks that I'll never know. One night, when I was about 7 years old, bedtime came. Like every other night, I climbed into the second level of my bunk bed. At around 9:30, I snug into my little fortress above the world. The top bunk was my favorite. Hands down, who doesn't love sleeping on the top bunk? Up high, where everything seemed smaller. I was safer up here. I drifted off quickly. I was exhausted from the day, lost in the easy dreams of a child. But that night, safety was an illusion that would shatter before morning. Some point in the night, I woke up. I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was a bad dream I had, or maybe I did hear something. But then I was sure that I heard something. A strained whisper. No. No. It was faint. Almost like it was coming from inside my head. I lay there holding my breath, waiting for the sound to go away. But it didn't. The whisper came again and it was louder this time and full of pain.
- [17:59]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
No. No.
- [18:03]
Narrator
My small chest tightened as I pulled the covers up to my face, convincing myself it was just my imagination. I was about to close my eyes when a new sound made my heart stop. The unmistakable creak of the stairs. Slowly and steadily, the boards groaned. Someone heavy was on the stairs. My parents bed was just across the room and I could hear their snoring, steady and undisturbed. It was not them. On the stairs. I heard the whisper again. It was more clear now, as if whoever was saying it was closer.
- [18:46]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
No. No.
- [18:49]
Narrator
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping the sound would go away. That I would wake up and find this was all just a bad dream. But then Came the screaming. It started very suddenly, A sharp, high pitched wail that seemed to echo from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. It mixed with the whispering and the noise that I heard on the stairs, creating a chorus of terror that wrapped itself around me, enveloped me. Me completely.
- [19:22]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
No. No.
- [19:24]
Narrator
The voice continued, much louder now, blending with the screams. Terrified and wondering why my parents were not coming into the room, I slid out of bed as quietly as I could. My hands shook as I felt for the ladder, my only way down. Each rung seemed louder than the last, and I winced with every small noise. When my feet hit the floor, I crawled on the ground toward the door. The door offered a full view of the stairs, where the creaking and the whispers were coming from. My fingers found the handle and I twisted it, carefully opening the door just enough to look outside. The staircase loomed in the darkness. It looked like an ominous void. Nothing was moving. For a brief moment, I thought maybe I had imagined all of it. How could I imagine screaming, though? But then the whisper came again, and this time from above me. No.
- [20:28]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
No.
- [20:30]
Narrator
My heart felt like it was trying to leap out of my chest. The sound was coming from the room upstairs. A room that no one should be in right now. I had to know what it was. I don't know why, but I just had to know. I crept toward the staircase. The house felt alive. Every creak and noise was amplified. I stayed low, peeking around corners, shaking, expecting to see someone. The stairs remained empty. Instead of going up, I decided to check the front door. Maybe I would find some explanation. Maybe someone had come inside and left the door open. My small hand reached for the light switch in the living room, but I hesitated. Something inside told me not to do it. I swallowed hard and inched toward the window. Instead, I peeked outside. And I saw them. Three people were standing just outside the window. Their shapes barely illuminated in the pale light. They were unmoving and they didn't say anything. I'm not sure if they could see me, but they stood still. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't look away. I was petrified. And then, in an instant, they were gone. One second they were there and the next, just gone. My heart was racing and I stumbled backward. I scrambled to my parents room and leapt into their bed. My mom stirred a little bit, mumbling and asking if I was okay. How could I tell her what I just saw? There were people outside the window. There's someone in the house upstairs. I didn't really know what to do, but I did feel safer lying between them. I'm not really sure what happened that night. Maybe it was just a dream, or maybe I really saw what I thought I did. I probably should have told my parents. It was supposed to be a cool, quiet evening with my brother, him, 11, and me, 12 years old. We were left to fend for ourselves this night as our parents went on a date night. We weren't scared or anything. This was kind of a normal thing, and we were used to it. At this point, our house was small, all of the lights were on, and we had snacks and a couple of movies lined up to keep us entertained until bedtime. Priceline Negotiator it's me, the Priceline negotiator. We don't need the jingle twice. What about a third time?
- [23:28]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
Stop it.
- [23:29]
Narrator
This is about vacation inflation and how Priceline negotiates amazing deals on hotels, flights and rental cars. Seems like they decided. Yeah, but I didn't mention that you can save up to 60% off hotels in the Priceline app. Time to read the timeline. Fine. No one deals more deals than Please stop.
- [23:50]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
Hey, I just Venmoed you for rent. Nice.
- [23:52]
Narrator
Now I can instantly spend it, whether I'm checking out online with Venmo or using a Venmo debit card. Say more.
- [23:59]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
More.
- [23:59]
Narrator
Exactly. Because the more you do with Venmo, the more you get, like earning up to 5% cash back with Venmo Stash on a bundle of brands so order more pizza. The meth demands it. Get the Venmo debit card Venmo Stash Bundle Terms and exclusions apply. See terms at Venmo Me Stash termsterms Venmo Checkout not available at all merchants Venmo mastercard is issued by the Bancorp
- [24:19]
Advertiser/Commercial Voice
Bank NA One day you'll tell the story of the summer that changed everything. A different city, new perspective, maybe even a different you. Odds are it'll start with that flight you decided to take. This summer, Delta Air Lines is flying its largest European network ever, with nearly 30 destinations including Nice and Sardinia. Your next chapter could start with one flight. Book your own European journey with delta@delta.com
- [24:50]
Narrator
it was just one of those ordinary nights. Nothing felt weird. Until we heard a knock on the door. I think it was around 8pm and the knock echoed through the house. My brother and I froze for a minute and paused the tv, looking at each other. A voice followed, muffled but clear enough to hear it. Pizza. At first I thought it was my dad playing a joke as they just arrived home. He had a habit of doing stuff like that Instinctively, I smiled and started walking toward the door, laughing under my breath. But as I reached for the doorknob, my brother told me to stop. He said, that's not dad. The realization hit me like a bucket of cold water. He was right. My dad's voice was different. It was deeper. It was warm and familiar. Who was this? It was sharper, almost too casual, like someone trying too hard hard to sound normal. I froze with my hand just a few inches away from the doorknob. We didn't order any pizza. I called out, my voice shaking. Silence followed. No reply. No retreating footsteps. Just silence. My brother now at my side, clutching my arm, he whispered, maybe we should call Mom. My heart was pounding now. Every beat was loud in my ears. What do I do? For 15 agonizing minutes we sat there silent. Not knowing what to do. I opened the closet next to the front door and retrieved my cricket bat. My brother walked over to the fireplace and picked up the ornamental fireplace poker. My eyes darted between the footpath and my brother's pale face. He was clutching the poker so tightly, I could tell that he was more scared right now than he had ever been in his life. Nothing moved. Silence. I tried to convince myself this was just a weird misunderstanding. Maybe my parents ordered us pizza and just forgot to tell us. But something told me this was not right. They definitely would have told us if they ordered pizza. Then finally, there was movement again. A shadow shifted on the footpath just at the edge of my view. The person was tall. They had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and he wore a long coat that seemed to swallow him. But what struck me most was that he was not carrying a pizza. He didn't run or hurry away. He just nonchalantly, slowly walked away. I ducked down, motioned for my brother to stay quiet and low. We waited until we couldn't hear his footsteps anymore. When we finally, finally felt like we were free to move around again, everything felt different. The vibe was destroyed. The cozy warmth of the house was now gone, replaced with cold, dark shadows that seemed darker than normal. I made sure every single light was on in the house. Every single one. We sat on the couch, huddled together, waiting for our parents to come home. When they finally walked through the door, my brother burst into tears. My mom immediately knew something was very wrong. We tried to explain the story sounded ridiculous, even to us. I'm pretty sure my dad didn't sleep that night. He was in the living room much longer than normal, stepping outside side every few minutes to make sure there was nobody out there. I Have no idea who the man was or what would have happened if we had opened the door. It's pretty scary to think about, though. To all outside side observers, it appeared that Dr. John Hamilton and his wife Susan had the perfect loving marriage. In their 14 years of blissful union, John's passionate love for his spouse had led him to lavish her with expensive gifts and luxurious vacations. A brand new Porsche on their wedding day being just the beginning of a long list of romantically motivated purchases. But John wasn't just generous with his money. He was apparently generous of heart too. And spent a great deal of time reminding Susan just how much he loved her in a variety of heartwarming ways. When Susan professed a yearning for employment for a purpose outside of being a housewife, John gave her a job at his highly esteemed obstetrics and gynecology clinic. Clinic in Oklahoma City. He was there for her in every way. And by all accounts, they were a textbook case of romantic longevity. But that's what makes it all the more horrifying that on Valentine's Day of 2001, Dr. Hamilton's arrival at the family home kicked off a chain of events that would turn their perfect little world into a living nightmare. As you can see imagine, in a marriage as loving as John and Susan's, Valentine's Day was held in high esteem. Every single year they were married, they exchanged gifts and cards, often having planned some kind of romantic rendezvous, Be it dinner and a movie or a walk around a local park. But on Valentine's Day of 2001, John was needed in the operating room of his clinic fairly early in the morning, too. Any exchange of gifts would have to wait until his lunch break. But just as he promised, John ducked out of the clinic as soon as he was able and drove home to spend a romantic half hour with his wife. After which he would have to return for another surgery. He called her name as he walked through the front door, but she didn't answer. John suspected that his wife might have some kind of surprise in store for him. And he felt a ripple of excitement run through him as he walked up the stairs towards the master bedroom. He called his wife's name again, but still there was no answer. And it was then that something caught John's eye. Lying on the floor of the second floor bathroom, it was Susan. She was in a crumpled, lifeless heap with blood pooling underneath her. Paramedics were called to the scene, but Susan couldn't be revived. Those in attendance noted that she appeared to have been strangled with two of her husband's expensive silk neckties. But the blood on the bathroom floor was undoubtedly from the series of bloody head wounds she had due to repeated blunt force trauma. The wounds being so severe that parts of her brain were exposed while her face was completely unrecognizable. To his absolute horror, Dr. John Hamilton was the number one suspect in his wife's murder from the very beginning. Police have since publicly stated that there were many factors which led them to such a conclusion. The first being that there was no sign of forced entry to the home. Whoever killed Susan had keys to the residence. It was also a crime in which nothing of value was stolen, and one which there were no bloody fingerprints left in a bathroom which had blood almost everywhere. This meant that there was a distinct chance that whoever killed Susan was either extremely professional, incredibly lucky, or had the time and privacy to scrub the scene of incriminating evidence before the body was found. On top of that, while searching the home, police got their hands on a Valentine's Day card that Susan had written to John, presumably that year. And in the message inside wasn't nearly as loving and cheerful as. As you might imagine. I bought this two weeks ago, so I guess maybe it doesn't seem as appropriate, but I do love you. Have a great day, Susan. The contents of the card raised a lot of questions concerning the state of Hamilton's marriage. Evidently, it suggests that there had been some kind of incident or argument, one that had caused a decline degree of turmoil and somewhat soured that Valentine's feeling. As it later turned out, this incident involved Susan catching John making phone calls to a woman employed as a topless dancer. Police actually found hundreds of calls to this person on John's cell phone during their investigation and heard from close friends of Susan that she had confessed to considering a divorce. To the cops, the explanation seemed simple. John had murdered his wife to prevent her from running off with half of his money. But at his trial, much of the local community came out in support of Dr. Hamilton and refused to believe that the man was capable of such a horrific crime, Especially given that the victim was his own beloved wife. But when the paramedics who attended the 911 call John made were questioned in court, the jury began to notice some disturbing inconsistencies in his story. Hamilton testified in court that after he contacted emergency services, he had gotten to work trying to perform CPR on his wife's bloodied corpse. And this appeared to be true, as the paramedics confirmed that when they had arrived, John had been performing chest compressions. But as people who performed CPR on an almost daily basis, the paramedics noticed something peculiar about John's technique. It was incredibly ineffective. From a regular person with no first aid training, that could be understandable. But John's was so bad that it almost looked like he wasn't actually trying to revive Susan at all, which for a medical professional, is very suspicious. John also claimed that he had tried performing mouth to mouth resuscitation on his wife. But the paramedics claimed that John had no blood on his mouth or face when they arrived. There was so much blood around the victim's head that there's no way John could have performed mouth to mouth and not gotten any on him. Some of Susan's blood was also found on the steering wheel of Dr. Hamilton's car. And despite his claim in court that he had simply moved the vehicle to make room for emergency vehicles, a prosecutor was able to make use of the overall suspicion to claim that this was evidence that John had been considering an escape attempt. At one point during the trial, the prosecution's case against Dr. Hamilton appeared to be floundering. Hamilton's defense attorney had brought a number of key character witnesses to testify in court, and all had built a picture of John as nothing but a loving husband. And he believed that the nail in the prosecution's coffin would be the testimony of a crime scene investigator named Tom Bevel, an expert on blood splatter at crime scenes. Bevel was essentially brought into confirm that the blood splatter on Dr. Hamilton's shirt, the same one he was wearing during his attempt at cpr, was consistent with the man simply trying to revive his murdered wife while in a state of extreme panic and grief. At first, Tom Bevel did indeed testify that much of the blood splatter could have well been from the doctor's attempts at cpr. But as it turned out, Bevel had noticed something that other investigators had overlooked. He had made a note of the few small flecks of blood that could be found on the inside of Hamilton's right sleeve, A pattern he had seen many times before on the clothing of people who have killed someone with a blunt object. In the seconds that followed, the courtroom was deathly silent. An expert defense witness had testified against the person they were supposed to be defending. And in just a few words, Tom bevel had condemned Dr. Hamilton to prison. When later asked why he made the decision to essentially act as a witness for the prosecution, Bevel claimed he just had to tell the truth. He said he had sworn an oath, something that, overrode any allegiance he may have had to his client. After that, it only took two hours for a jury of his peers to find John Hamilton guilty on the charge of first degree murder, whereafter a judge sentenced him to life in prison. Those that followed the case were highly disturbed by the sudden turn of events John had, and still does maintain his innocence even to this day. But more and more evidence. Evidence points to the idea that he killed his wife in cold blood. His defense team even floated the idea that he must have been innocent because the guilty timeline would mean that John went to work and performed flawless surgeries right after murdering the love of his life. This might well be true, but in light of the guilty verdict, it's all the more damning because it slowly suggests that Dr. John Hamilton was able to beat his wife's skull in on Valentine's Day, then remain calm and collected enough to go and perform complicated medical surgeries. And if it's true, then maybe a more fitting name for Dr. Hamilton is Dr. Death. For just over 15 years, Birkinshire, England in its bright and wondrous glory was the breeding ground for joy and cheer. Every year the denizens of the city gather around the center of the square to share the tales of the supernatural. Tales of goblins and elves, of witch wizards and witches. Tales of heroism and valor. This particular holiday was known to them as Lore Night, the one time of year where any patron, young and old were invited to come from all countries and cultures in the world. Lore Night always began upon the setting sun and would seldom end until the rising dawn. Of course, lo, food and the best of the freshly brewed ale were always anticipated on this night. Freshly killed and optally prepared game accompanied by what would be compared to at least two full grown fields of delicious crops. On a selected few occasions it was said that there would even be music being played as the tales of the tales larger than life were being told. The best aspect of Lore Knight, according to according to most in Berkingshire, was when one storyteller would subtly attempt to weave their tale in such a way that would attempt to outdo the other tales being told that night. For example, two years back, a young lad captivated all in attendance beyond all others with his tale of a fierce and virtuous warrior that would conquer beasts and dragons alike for the protection of his kingdom. Another tale that was applauded above all others, one particular lornite, was spoken by a Norwegian sailor who celebrated his own account of encountering and defending his vessel against the wrath of the Damnable draugr. Until tonight, this tale was considered to be incontestable in its popularity among the commoners in Berkshire. This lore knight, however, would shift the very history of Berkingshire, forming an irrevocable crimson stain on its otherwise joyous visage. This year's lore night began like every year before it. The excited and anxious storytellers began to amass in the center of the city, where at least three cords of dry logs lay neatly prepared for the token bonfire that would blaze bright through the night's festivities. Long tables of food and drink were being prepared. The market clerk who always ran the meat and produce stands was, as always had been from the prior years on this night at the forefront of preparing the holiday feast. On this occasion, however, he was determined to make this year's lore knight feast bigger and more gluttonous than any before and any to come. The timbermen of the Berkingshire began to double the size of the festive pyre as insurance for its continuous burning. It seems that the commoners intended for this year's lore night to be the biggest and boldest of them all, as if it may be their last. And for many of them, this night would indeed be their very last. The setting sun saw the lighting of the festive pyre in the center of town. Many gasped in in awe and excitement at the monumental height of the hungry scorching flames, easily tripling the height and overall size of years before. At this, the masses hastily flocked to the tables adorned with the gratuitous feast. Indeed, the market clerk and those in his assistants had outdone themselves, for even upon the setting sun's last glimmer, many were still preoccupied, occupied with gorging themselves on the delectable meal, and were unable to tell their tales they had prepared all year, for on this night, that is, except for one man, this man declined silently to partake in the feast. No one saw him touch so much as even a single crumb from the bountiful buffet. One or two individuals approached him, attempting to extend warm invitations to join in on the bountiful banquet. The stranger answered these advances with only a cold, stoic, and malignant stare. Upon witnessing this behavior from the stranger, many in the congregated mass began to feel the slight chill crawl up their spines as they observed the stranger lingering near the festive bonfire, whose heat began to grow so immense as to be felt by all in the nearby vicinity. Even as the heat of the blaze intensified, however, the stranger wouldn't remove the long dark ashen gray trench coat whose collar was erected upwards as to conceal his face, only exposing the eyes under the brim of his pitch black, wide brimmed hat. As he stood so close to the pyre that the congregation began to wonder what kept him from being set ablaze himself, the features of the strangers, or lack thereof, became more pronounced. The muted stranger's eyes were covered in red raging veins, giving them an appearance not wholly dissimilar to a rabid animal. The irises were as devoid of hue as the trench coat that concealed his features from view. In the center, however, the stranger's pupils were somehow even darker it's your league to dominate an ea Sports Madden NFL 27 powered by the all new Persona engine, you can build your franchise the way you want and to really live your entire football journey, get the MVP Bundle. It comes with Access to College Football 27 Madden NFL 27/ Deluxe Edition Rewards in both games. From campus legend to NFL superstar, make your rise with the MVP Bundle. Learn more@EA.com rated E for everyone with mild lyrics. User Interact and in game purchases. Includes random items
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this episode is brought to you by Netflix. The MLB at Field of Dreams returns Bryce Harper and the Philadelphia Phillies face
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Narrator
Byron Buxton and the Minnesota Twins at
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the iconic Field of Dreams ballpark. The field is calling. Watch the MLB at Field of Dreams game live on Netflix. Thursday, August 13 at 7:30pm Eastern, 4:30pm Pacific Amazon Health AI presents Painful Thoughts
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why did I search the Internet for answers to my cold sore problem? Now I'm stuck down a rabbit hole filled with images of alarmingly graphic source in various stages of ooze. I can clear my search history, but I can never unsee that.
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Don't go down the rabbit hole. Amazon Health AI gets you the right care fast. Healthcare just got less painful than the
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Narrator
night sky above itself, as if looking into them could cause one to be stripped of their soul in a matter of mere seconds. Despite the stranger's foreboding presence, the attending mass gathered around the towering inferno that was the festive pyre as it was time for the night's tales to be told. However, despite the years time spent preparing for this very moment, none in attendance could remember what stories they came to tell. None, that is, except for the stranger whose gaze still fixed on the dance of the large flames before them all.
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So you've gathered here for stories.
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Have you uttered a cracked, hoarse voice, as if the speech was performed under some sort of intense strain on the vocal cords? Though hoarse and strained words were every individual ear had perceived them. There was a clear stance of actual absolute certainty in everyone's minds that the voice was indeed that of the stranger, who until that very moment remained distantly cold and completely mute. This sudden shift in the stranger's behavior caused the attending mass to take a back in shock.
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I will share a story with you all, a story to make you realize the mistake that you've all made and have made for a generation now.
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At this statement, a dreadful chill overtook the wind's breeze, causing the patrons to shiver despite the ever blazing inferno before them. This abrupt temperature change caused some to position themselves closer to the flames in a feeble attempt to find some semblance of warmth amid the suddenly chilling air. An attempt, attempt that proved futile, as if the very essence of the flames natural heat, had been taken away, leaving them to dance wildly about atop the festive pyre. This abrupt phenomena, coupled with the formerly mute and mysterious stranger's threatening and rather ominous statement, forced an air of unease and a jarring sense of dread to spread throughout the congregation.
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None of you believe in the entities in whose names you forge through the tales of fiction, from effectively dishonoring the respect and fear they were once due.
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None of the patrons in the present mass knew how to comprehend the mysterious stranger's abrasive claims. Surely they optimistically thought this facade as nothing except a mere act of a tactic for captivating the audience's attention. This was lore night, a night of fun and cheer in the regaling of folk legends of elder days and the tall tales molded by the tricks of eager imaginations, not the grim and macabre as was implied by the stranger.
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The tale I tell you now is the story of my land from which I hailed. Take some special care to listen, for when suffering comes upon you all, you may then know in your beating hearts and your tortured souls the full extent of those who you and your mockeries have disgraced.
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This tale, the stranger began, remaining stiff as if he were a statue cut from marble or granite, with his unwaveringly menacing glare eternal, eternally fixed within the
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festive pyre's flames, begins with the priest of my native land, Father Durkenshaw. You see, the Father was a good man, a righteous man, holy as he was. The wills and righteous ways of the God blinded the good father to the dangerous arrogance of closing his mind to the powers beyond the grasp of even the Heavenly Father's might to contest.
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As the stranger continued his blasphemous macabre narration, a stench of decay and formaldehyde laced the air that was breathed by the congregated audience, forcing more than many of them to begin to gag, whilst others attempted the banquet they enjoyed profusely from being emptied from their stomachs.
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Father Durkenshal, the stranger continued, had no tolerance for any such aspect of life that was not deemed as being of God's will. Much like you all, Father Durkenshaw was all too swift to brush away anything deemed not of holy merit as but mere illusions of deluded and perverted minds. The Father conducted his life in this manner for many generations, blissfully ignorant of the forces that play beyond the sacred rites of the Christian faith.
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The flames began to shift color from the bright orange to an infernal red. All at once the formerly lost heat returned twofold, forcing the patrons to profusely sweat. Beyond the mild physical discomfort, however, was an infernal terror that this, as well as the previous phenomena, must in some way or another be connected to the stranger. This collectively agreed upon conclusion was not voiced by any however, to not draw any undesirable attention to themselves, as well as to feed their equally growing sense of morbid curiosity in hearing exactly where the stranger stored story would go next. The stranger's eyes widened, further pronouncing their disturbing appearance. That is, he continued, his voice further
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distorting with each uttered word, until the arrival of a conjurer whose very nature could and did challenge the will of the church. No one knows where he wandered from, as no one could remember any interaction with him. They hadn't even known of his name.
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The surrounding darkness, outside of the immediate radius of the bonfire's light, began to crawl inward, close to the towering blaze, engulfing nearly all of the congregated patrons, leaving only a few to be spared from the shadows by the ever raging fire's light. Whimpers of terrified anxiety, anxiety rose amongst them as they began to lose sight of each other in the encroaching void. Whilst the stranger, still illuminated in the glow of the blaze, continued regaling them of his ghostly testament. The stranger began to finally undo the buttons of his trench coat, though not quite yet enough to expose any of his features apart from his corpse.
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Like eyes, you see, the conjurer wished to live in peace amongst the natives.
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The stranger continued his cold sinister gaze, appearing to cause the flames to dance more viciously upon the festive pyre than before.
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But his hunger and conflicting practices forced him into a life of cold solitude. He would spend his days in a blissful hibernation and would walk the land under the moon's glow that alone, while trivial and mysterious to the commoners, was not what caused them to shun him. It was his unnatural pallet for living blood.
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It was at this very moment when the now captivated mass began to perceive what they could only describe being the chilling laughter of a pack of hyenas who lost themselves to some sort of stuff state of hysteria. Hearing these cackles, certain individuals found themselves grateful in an odd sort of way that the oppressive darkness that now nearly swallowed each and every individual had rendered them unable to see even so much as their hands in front of their faces, lest they would be forced to envision whatever demonic beings that could produce such a noise. Despite the increasingly overwhelming urge to attempt a flight from the morbid phenomenon occurring in the city's center, none in the congregation could find within them the strength of will even to flee in fear. The stranger's ghoulish narrative continued despite the infectiously spreading dread amongst the mass, who were now swallowed in entirety by the looming shadow.
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His taste, his lust for warm fresh blood could never be sated for such in the existence of one such as he always craving. Never enough. However, in spite of his ravenous nature, he wished only peace to the village folk. For many years he would live off the blood of the livestock. One night upon his awakening, the conjurer had spied upon a beautiful, beautiful maiden, the most beautiful of any in the long recorded history of this lifetime to ever have and ever would walk these lands. The love birthed within him had not been felt since his conception into this earth.
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The manic howls from deep within the looming shadows became louder, growing closer and more pronounced, much the same fashion as as a flock of predators encircling their helpless victims, allowing the venomous fear to cripple mind and body before gorging themselves upon the fresh pound of flesh. Screams and shrieks of fright rang out into the ever persisting darkness, as glints of maliciously ravenous eyes shone as crimson as that of the rubies encrusted within the trinkets of the maidens present in the horrific scene of unholy events. Having left with no conceivable alternative for escaping the menacing darkness and whatever malevolent evils within the mass began to congregate as close to the blazing festive pyre as was physically possible, yet still taking great care to space away from the stranger, as if wandering too close to his presence may see them afflicted by some nature of unsaintly power that he may supposedly possess.
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What be thy lordly given name sir, from the distant lands beyond? She asked the mysterious conjurer.
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The stranger's narrative continued to this.
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The conjurer spoke to her the very name that reigns the utmost supremacy in the land that I hail. I, my sweet delicate blossom, am Lord Vladimir Claviculous of the Eastern kingdoms.
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The stranger roared the name aloud, causing the blaze to flare in an angry burst and the deranged howls and cackles within the consuming darkness to bark out into the open night. Creeping ever closer to the center.
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As swiftly as his eyes could entrap hers, her heart succumbed to his lustful whims. Many a night following the proud Lord Clavicles would call her from her tower to meet him purely for the consumption of her precious blood. From her beautifully porcelain neck it was said that Lord Claviclas bite filled the maiden's heart with further desire for him. For each night she was said to have grown restless, impatient for her cause consort's return.
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At this, many within the congregation began to feel cold petite hands softly caressing their bare flesh. As the cackles within the consuming void continued to advance upon them. Soft inane whispers were heard by each ear in the captive mass, almost appearing as sensual. The stranger of whose damning glare, never arrested from the ceaseless fury of the furious flames within the festive pyre continued, whilst his voice further stripped away into a malicious rattle pyre hatred as his tale went on.
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Oh, her blood did he drink, drink and drink until she no longer answered her master's siren call. For many a night he had searched for her, starving of the young mistress's blood, when he discovered the truth, her absence. For after they last met, the natives spoke against her to the ever righteous Father Durkenshaw, who in all his holy practices ruled her to the world and holy Father above as a witch, a devil's familiar which their faith unwavering in their blind convictions, the distraught lord discovered that his maiden had been to forced expelled like many a maiden caught victim to blind conviction by a raging fire like this. Before you all now screams of inhuman
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agony deafened the congregation as the wild untamed flames began to shape and form themselves into the form of a delicate young maiden. Just as soon as its fiery birth was complete, a blackened maw opened that released an agonized wail that invoked an unutterable pain and sorrow that blended with the presently potent fear within the mass that could not and would not waver. As the flames returned to their former state, unyielding in their enraged ferocity, the stranger began again his Ghastly vocals took on an air of aggression. Vengeance, his inhuman voice barked.
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Vengeance he swore to exact on those whose holy ways led them to commit this atrocity upon them. In the cold night he came, many a mourn following. The families would find more of their dear beloved gone in the night, only to be spied upon the succeeding dusk. As one of the disciples of the Nosferatu, Lord Vladimir Claviculus, I condemn you all, you bleeding sheep of the Lord,
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he roared to them one full moon twilight.
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Damn you. Damn you all, whose faith blinds you to the wills existent beyond God's law. Your actions, deemed righteous by your God because of your lack of vision and lack of control, stripped me of what I held dear to me. For this I declare that as long as I am bound to walk these lands with earthly feet the setting sun on this night, for every generation to come, myself and my dwellers of the night will come. Any of whom we spy in their play, we shall strip away from you as you stripped her away from me. For this I swear to you and all whose faith and corrupted pride practice, conduct, your lives, for this night will belong to us, the Nosferatu, the Vampire. I christen this very gravely dusk, along with every such that recurs on every century to come as the Nosferatu nacht the Vampire's knight. And upon his declaration's conclusion, the vampire Lord Clavicles began his dark campaign with sating his feral ire with the blood he spilled from the great priest Father Durkenshaw. Many perished at the wrath and burning ire for the warm, innocent blood that night before the sun rose, warding him away until the next annual cycle awakened him, concluding in the same grotesque manner as before.
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The abysmal cacophony intensified to a deafening pitch, with only the stranger's ghoulishly rasping voice being able to be distinguished separately
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from that night and every Nosferatu knocked since. Lord Clavicles has walked on this cold night, sating his desire for blood on those who foolishly neglect to pay credence to his words.
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Upon the conclusion of the stranger's horrifying anecdote, the mad cackles of malice abruptly died, shrouding the congregation in a jarring silence, save only for the crackling of the flames. As the stranger began to remove his trench coat and hat for the first time, revealing a gaunt and bony face bound with gray clammy flesh pulled taut over his skull and long, wispy strand strands of albino hair, his cold blue dead lips began to part upwards into A deranged vulpine grin that exposed unnaturally long thin canine molars as sharp as the nobleman's dagger. Upon sight of this, a young maiden from the terror stricken audience squealed out.
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Who are you?
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The stranger, stealing his gaze away from the festive pyre for the first time, fixed his eyes to her.
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My dear, delicate blossom. I am Lord Vladimir Clavicolas of the Eastern Kingdoms. And tonight is Nosferatu Nacht, the Vampire's knight.
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At the chilling revelation, the blazing fire bursts skyward defiantly into the air to illuminate the hordes of dark beasts that took residence in lurking darkness only moments before, every one of them bearing their vicious fangs. For indeed, these were the disciples of the vampire Clavicles. No sooner than the first squeal of hysteria was let out that the stranger, the Vampire Lord Clavicles, bared his fangs, rolling his eyes back into his skull with pleasure as he could, clamped his jaw around the young maiden's neck, savoring every last amount of crimson he could take from her. As he rose from her, now stripped of life, the once furious flames abruptly ceased, shrouding the helpless mass in complete darkness as the Nosferatu came upon them. Try as they might, none of the commoners could escape the inhuman and supernatural clutches of the scourging beasts as they were swept away and torn apart like a herd of lamb amid the wolves den from what must have been every direction in the impossible looming darkness, no cries for mercy were heard or heeded when the sun rose that morn, silence had laid its claim to Berkingshire. All that remained of the events of the accursed night were the smouldering and embers of the festive pyre and the mutilated and exsanguinated remains of the lornite mass, now set to become eternally bound to the tradition of the Nosferatu Nacht.
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This episode is supported by FX's the Shards, a seductive drama from executive producer Ryan Murphy. Set in 1980s Los Angeles, the series
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follows a group of glamorous, deeply entangled
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high school seniors drawn into a life of wealth, beauty, parties and excess. At its center is Brett, whose reality begins to unravel when the arrival of a new student coincides with a series of mysterious murders. FX's the Shards premieres August 5th on FX and Hulu.
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On December 17, 1938, 19 year old college graduate Margaret Martin left her home in Kingston, Pennsylvania to meet with an unknown man who offered her a potential secretarial job. When she failed to return, Martin's family reported her missing and began a search of the surrounding area. Ford days later her body was discovered in the wilderness around 20 miles away. She had been horribly tortured, mutilated and strangled before her bound and trussed body was dumped in a mountain stream where it was found by a hunter. There were few clues as to her killer's identity except the owner of a sawmill reported interrupting an unknown trespasser and police believe this is where the murder occurred. Witnesses came forward with a description of a man seen with Martin around the time of her disappearance, but no one has ever been arrested and charged in connection with her murder. At the beginning of December 1938, Margaret Martin graduated with honors from Wilkes Barre Business College, having attended classes to gain secretarial skills to find work as a stenograph. A former classmate, Betty Hopkins, described her as a shy, studious, friendly girl who had many friends and she was well liked within the community of Kingston in Luzerne County, Pennsylvania. Her parents raised Margaret and her siblings as devout Catholics and her father, John Martin, was a coal mine foreman and member of the local Democratic committee. The Martins had fortunes children of which 19 year old Margaret was the eldest and included 17 year old Mary, 15 year old Helen, and 12 year old Jack. Margaret Martin was contacted the Saturday morning of December 17, 1938 by an unknown man who offered her a job. He explained he was setting up an insurance company and was in need of a qualified stenographer and had a suitable sense of secretarial position available. He added that he had heard of her through the Wilkes bar Business College. Ms. Martin was gleefully anticipating her first job since graduating college and looking forward to earning some money before the Christmas holidays. So she agreed to meet with the man at Kingston Corners, located not far from the Martin family home. When she left the house that morning to keep her appointment with the mysterious telephone call caller, Margaret promised her parents she would return home immediately. It would be the last time they saw her alive. When she failed to appear by the evening, her worried family and friends contacted the police and reported her missing. During the investigation into her disappearance, police and volunteers conducted a search of the surrounding area. Several witnesses came forward with information Pertinent to the case, Martin was seen the day of her disappearance in conversation with an unknown man and then getting into what was described as a black sedan or brown Plymouth. The description given of the man was vague and he was believed to be a suave, neat, sandy haired young man, slightly overweight and between the ages of 25 and 30 years old. None of the witnesses were able to identify the license plate of the car. There were numerous theories on what might have happened to Ms. Martin, with some believing she had been kidnapped. The absence of a ransom note seemed to indicate that it was more likely she was either the victim of a sex maniac or had fallen victim to white slaver traitors. The search failed to find any trace of her and the publicity surrounding the disappearance. Disappearance was hampered because the local newspapers were on strike. On December 21, 1938, several days after she vanished, the body of Margaret Martin was discovered in the Wyoming County Woodlands around 25 miles from her home. 19 year old Anthony Rosykowski was out trapping muskrats in the forested area when he made the grim discovery. As he places snares under a a footbridge, he noticed a large burlap sack that had been partially submerged in two feet of shallow water in Kersberg Creek, which was eight miles from Tan. When he went to investigate further, he noticed the bag had been stitched with twine and one of the knots had slipped open, revealing a human arm. When he peeked inside, he saw the naked body of a young woman and immediately noticed notified the police. It was soon identified as the body of Margaret Martin and it was determined she had been dead for at least 24 hours. Tracks along the tiny Keelersburg Creek were blotted out by snow and state troopers searched the immediate area looking for clues. The coroner concluded from the bruises to her neck that the cause of death was strangulation. But she suffered many other wounds and she had been tortured and mutilated by her killer. Her body showed signs of having been beaten with a large object, possibly a rock, and there were knife wounds to her stomach and thigh. The coroner commented that she had suffered the molestation of a degenerate. Her family was notified and John Martin said of his daughter, our little girl fought for herself and died. The pure girl she was, while her mother said she is with God today. Lieutenant Charles S. Cook headed a detail of the state police investigation into the murder and asserted the killer was apparently someone familiar with the Wyoming Woodlands who had driven a car to roughly 75 yards from the bridge, then carried the body to the spot where it was found. He reiterated this fact by saying someone familiar with the territory placed the body in the creek and it might not have been found for several years if the young man setting traps had not passed through the lonely section. Because of the remote location of the discovery and how the body was found, Lieutenant Cook was convinced that the murder took place somewhere else. The owner of a Forkston sawmill, James Kedd, reported finding a trespasser on his property and fired a warning warning shot in the intruder's direction, apparently scaring the man off. This incident occurred the day before Martin's body was discovered, and the sawmill was 12 miles from Keillersburg Creek. Police theorized the trespasser was the killer who murdered Martin inside the sawmill and then attempted to dismember her body and destroy it in the mill's firebox. Ashes were recovered from the sawmill boiler, and police were confident there would contain particles of clothing worn by Ms. Martin, along with metal fragments believed to be a dress ornament. However, these were analyzed by a Wilkes Bar chemist and found to contain only waste material. Major William Clark, the 3rd Squadron commander who headed the state police investigation, concluded that the sawmill theory had been almost almost eliminated, but more inquiries would be made. The only clues left with the body were the two burlap bags in which the body was found, A length of sash cord that had bound the body, and a gentleman's silk scarf which had no identifying marks. On Dec. 22, the Scranton Tribune predicted that the killer would be captured within the following 24 hours. The funeral of Mo Margaret Martin was held on December 24th at St Ignatius Church in Kingston, and hundreds of people were in attendance. Several plain clothed officers were also present, working on the belief they might spot someone acting suspiciously. Four days later, on December 28th, Pennsylvania State Senator Leo C. Mundy declared that he would introduce a bill at the next state level legislature which would make sex crimes punishable by execution. It would also include the registration of all sex offenders and the requirement of all physicians, social and welfare workers to report anyone who exhibited such tendencies. Senator Mundy was prompted to introduce this bill as a direct result of Margaret Martin's brutal murder. The Deputy commissioner of the State Police Police, Colonel Cecil M. Wilhelm, predicted that the mystery of her death would someday be solved. The investigation explored many other avenues, including a suspicious vehicle seen parked at the mountain cabin on the night of the murder, which might have belonged to the killer, but was soon ruled out when the owner gave police a satisfactory explanation for his movements in the area. Further leads also led nowhere. A reported incident where a bundle of clothing thrown from a car near Orwigsburg was suspected to be the killer disposing of Martin's clothes but proved to be unrelated. Officers attempts to check a statement that a witness attributed to a Kingston man who allegedly said I'm going to make a date with that Martin girl or break my neck in the attempt proved fruitless. By early 1939, most leads in the case either fizzled out or resulted in a dead end for detectives. The manhunt for the killer would continue and by February 1939, many suspects were investigated and discounted. Two men who attempted to attack a 16 year old girl from Hanover Township in Luzerne county were questioned and claimed cleared. Many locals have their theories on who the killer might be, such as a mortician from Wyoming County, a local assistant pastor, a businessman's son who left the area soon after the murder, a local teenager who had a crush on the victim, and a teacher at the Wilkes Bar Business College who held an infatuation with Martin. The case was the most baffling mystery the local and state police had ever encountered. In June 1939, the Luzerne County District Attorney's office announced there would be no request to Luzerne county commissioners to offer a reward for the capture of the killer. However, it was disclosed that new clues had surfaced in the case which might soon lead to the arrest of one of two suspects. He did not specify what those clues were, nor whether an arrest was imminent. Despite this promising development, nothing further was revealed and no arrests were made. In September 1942, 21 year old Orban Taylor of New York City confessed to Scranton police that he was responsible for the death of Margaret Martin. Taylor was formerly a resident of Wilkes Bar and told investigators that he visited the area while serving the US Army. Despite his admission of guilt, Taylor was unable to reveal to detectives how he disposed of the victim's clothing, which had never been found. After more than 10 hours of questioning, the young man repudiated his confession. New York Detective Captain George W. Donaldson, who was leading the investigation, explained that the military authorities at Fort J. Joined the investigation being conducted by the state Motor police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation because Taylor had been dishonorably discharged from the Army. Although he denied murdering Ms. Martin, he did confess to other crimes, including several robberies, a stabbing in New York, and of defrauding several hotels in Philadelphia, Newark, New Jersey and Elizabeth, New Jersey. Subsequently, he was not charged with murder. In the decades after her murder, the circumstances of Margaret Martin's death are still unexplained. And her killer has never been brought to justice. Many of those who worked the case came to believe the man responsible must have been a local because of his knowledge of the area, while others suspect it might have been the work of a serial killer. Despite the advancement of forensic science techniques, the case remains unsolved. In the vast labyrinth of unsolved true crime cases, few have captured the public's imagination quite like the perplex, perplexing vanishing of Drs. Sneha and Philip. A brilliant and ambitious young physician, Dr. Phillip's life came to an inexplicable halt on September 10, 2001, right before the tumultuous chaos of the 911 terrorist attacks in New York City. Her sudden disappearance, overshadowed by the devastating events of that fateful day, left law enforcement, friends and family grappling with the question, what happened to Sneha and Philip? Dr. Sneha Ann Philip was born on October 7, 1969 in India, and from an early age, it was evident that she possessed an unwavering determination to succeed. She ventured to the United States to pursue her dream of becoming a medical professional, eventually graduating with honors from the Chicago College of osteopathic Medicine in 1995. With her aspirations firmly rooted, she moved to the vibrant metropolis of New York City, where she completed her residency at the prestigious Cabrini Medical center in Manhattan on the morning of September 10, 2001. The world had no inkling of the darkness that was about to envelop it, nor did anyone anticipate the inexplicable fate that awaited Dr. Sneha and Philip. She was seen leaving her Battery Park City apartment that morning, her energy and optimism a reflection of the city's bustling atmosphere. Like countless other New Yorkers, she was heading to work, preparing to fulfill her duties as a physician at the Cabrini Medical Center Center. Surveillance cameras captured footage of Dr. Philip at a local grocery store near her apartment that day, making a routine purchase, providing the last glimpse of her before she vanished into thin air. However, as night descended upon the city, she failed to return home, setting into motion a series of events that would unravel an enigmatic puzzle in the wake of the devastating 911 attacks. The search of Dr. Sneha and Philip was inevitably overshadowed by the urgency of finding survivors and victims at ground zero. Amidst the rubble and destruction, the hunt for the missing physician was hampered, with her case receiving only fragmented attention. As the dust settled and the enormity of the tragedy sank in, investigators turned their focus to uncovering the truth behind Dr. Phillips disappearance. Early on, they considered the grim possibility that she had been tragically killed in the terrorist attacks. Her apartment's proximity to ground zero fueled this hypothesis, but it was soon challenged by emerging evidence. Piecing together fragments of her life, investigators unearthed a hidden side of Dr. Phil Philip that few knew about. They discovered that she had struggled with alcohol related issues, and her past included a brush with law for shoplifting at the very grocery store that she was seen visiting on the day she vanished. This line of inquiry suggested that she might have wandered into obscurity, intentionally disappearing to escape her problems. However, just as investigators seemed to be settling on this theory, eyewitnesses began to emerge, offering possible sightings of Sneha and Philip after September 10, 2001. One individual claimed to have seen her in a Manhattan Hospital on September 11, 2001, while others testified to spotting her in different parts of the city in the days immediately following the attacks. These accounts injected fresh uncertainty into the case and reignited hope that she might still be alive. As the investigation progressed, it became increasingly apparent that the circumstances surrounding Dr. Phillips disappearance were far from straightforward. The trail grew colder with each passing day, leaving investigators with more questions than answers. The inexplicable disappearance of Dr. Sneha and Philip opened the floodgates of speculation and gave rise to a myriad of theories. One prevailing theory was that she met with a tragic end on September 11, and her remains were obliterated amidst the rubble of the collapsing World Trade center towers. This idea, while tragic, offered a measure of closure to some, though it failed to explain the alleged sightings of her in the days that followed. Conversely, the theory of a voluntary disappearance gained traction as investigators uncovered the complexities of Dr. Phillips personal struggles. Some postulated that the stress of her past legal troubles and potential relapse may have culminated in her deciding to reinvent herself in a new life, far removed from the constraints of her previous existence. But even this theory left many unanswered questions, especially regarding the alleged sightings and the absence of any communication from the missing doctor. As time passed, darker theories emerged, suggesting that Dr. Philip might have fallen victim to human trafficking or abduction, explaining the lack of contact with her family and friends. These conjectures, while terrifying, lacked concrete evidence and only added to the complexity of the case. The disappearance of Dr. Sneha and Philip remains an enigma wrapped in a puzzle, concealed by the shroud of time and tragedy. As the years drift by, hope to finding her alive diminishes, but the embers of determination to solve the case still flicker within the hearts of her family and friends. Friends. The mystery of Dr. Phillips disappearance serves as a haunting reminder of the frailty of human existence and the profound impact a single individual can have on the lives they leave behind. Until new evidence comes to light, the fate of Dr. Sneha and Philip will continue to remain an indelible stain on the canvas of true crime history. An enduring enigma that defies resolution.