Gather round. This happened in England in 1980. Trevor Parker was walking his coliard after a rain and wanted to make sure the runoff was draining. He stopped at a 10 foot pile. A man in a suit was laying on top of his coal. Maybe a drunk sleeping it off, but it's hard to climb coal sober. Wet coal drunk would be impossible. Trevor crawled up. The man wasn't moving. Trevor's hands were black from the climb, but the man suit was spotless, like he just appeared there, or was placed there. Five days earlier, a coal miner 20 miles away went to the store for potatoes. That was the last time anybody saw a Ziegmann-Adamsky alive. Somebody had him for five days, but they sent him back. Ziegmann's Ziegied-Adamsky was 56 years old and he spent his whole life working underground, but he was done. His chest hurt all the time, and his heart couldn't take much more. Besides, his wife Lottie was in a wheelchair and needed him home, so he asked the coal board for an early retirement. They said no, but he didn't let it spoil the week. A cousin was over from Poland with her boy, and the three of them went to town and had fish and chips, and the next day was the wedding. Adamsky was giving his goddaughter away. He even wrote a speech. About 330 that afternoon, he grabbed his jacket, told Lottie he was going for potatoes, and went out. The shop was just down the road. A neighbor said hello as Ziegied walked past, but Ziegied never reached the shop. Lottie waited until dark and then she called the police. She thought he was kidnapped. And this hurts. The day after he vanished, Ziegied got a letter from the coal board. They changed their mind. He could retire. All Lottie could do is put the letter in the drawer. There was nobody to tell. The police searched the village and the papers ran his photo. They didn't get a single tip. Then five days after he vanished, the police got a call from Trevor Parker at a coal yard in Todd Morton. Somebody found a body. Constable Alan Godfrey and his partner went to investigate. Parker said he was in the yard until 11 that morning. There was no body, only coal. The yard was on a busy road in the middle of town and nobody saw a thing. Godfrey climbed. He was black to the elbows by the time he reached the top. And when he got there, he was a foot away from the dead man's face. He said those eyes were staring up at me. Those eyes sent the shutter down my spine. They were wide open. The man wore a suit jacket and trousers and the jacket was buttoned into the wrong holes and his shirt was gone. But he was wearing a white string best. His watch and wallet were gone. His shoes were on but they weren't tied correctly like they were tied in a rush. And the coal around the body wasn't disturbed. No slide marks, no footprints, nothing to show how he got up there. The police checked the missing person's list and found a photo. The man on the coal was Ziggy Debsky, 20 miles from home and a town he had no reason to visit. But this was a strange case. The back of Ziggy's head was shaved and around the shaved patch was a ring of burns. An out of a wound on his neck was seeping a slimy yellow green substance. Ziggy was gone five days but only had one day of stubble. Somebody shaved him. Somebody cut his hair too but not well. It was chopped and uneven. The pathologist ran an autopsy and the first thing he learned was, Zigmyth Debsky wasn't dead for days. He died just a few hours ago. By June, everybody's talking about their summer body. Feeds are full of vague promises, cleanses, 75 hard challenges, secret stacks, nobody's naming the medicine that's actually FDA-approved. Losing weight is one thing, but looking and feeling like yourself the summer is the real goal. That's why weight loss by hymns offers access to the FDA-approved Mogoby pill and Mogoby pen. 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To get started and learn more, including important safety information, wogoby-clinical study information, and restrictions visit hymns.com. Zigman the damn skier was alive the whole time he was missing. Somebody was feeding him. The autopsy showed a full stomach. He was well-rested. Whoever had him kept him fed, kept him shaved, and kept him indoors for five days while his photo ran in the papers. The burns were odd. They were chemical burns, something corrosive on the skull and the neck and across his shoulders. The marks looked like electrodes have been stuck to his skin. But, after somebody burned him, they treated him. There was ointment on the wound. The police checked with every doctor at every hospital in the county. Nobody saw him. They tested the ointment against thousands of known chemicals. Nothing matched. That was all the damage. He had a scrape on his leg, a few cuts on his hands and knees, but no sign of a struggle. The burns didn't kill him, his heart did. The pathologist said this was a classic case of a man who was scared to death. The corner spent all summer trying to figure out what happened. A senior officer on the case thought it was murder, and murder was God-free's first instinct too, but there were no suspects. No wounds, no struggle, no witnesses, and no way a sick man in a suit climbed 10 feet of wet coal without getting dirty. The corner wouldn't call a murder, but he couldn't call it natural. He said it was a heart attack, but left every other question open. He called it the strangest case of his career. That summer, something else strange was happening in the area. Orange fireballs in the sky. Lights and objects reported for weeks before Ziggy vanished and for weeks after. People started calling the valley, UFO Alley. Five months later, the constable who climbed that coal pile stopped his car on a road a mile away. He had to. There was no room to drive around the spaceship. That November, near the end of a night shift, God-free got sent to find some cows wandering around in a state, a mile from the coal yard. At five in the morning in the raid, cows were the job. He passed a big black dog sitting by the roadside, thought nothing of it. There were headlights ahead. He thought it was a bus, till it got close enough to see it was something else. A diamond, 20 feet wide, hanging five feet over the road. The bottom was half turned, and there was a row of windows around the middle, and it hovered so low that the bushes under it were shaking. He tried the car radio. Dead. His walkie-talkie also dead. He got out his notebook and started drawing the diamond. That's the last thing he remembers. Then he was a hundred yards down the road, still driving, and the thing was gone. His watch was off by almost 20 minutes, and the soul of his boot was split open. He went back with another officer. The road was wet everywhere except for one round patch, and the leaves around it were swept in an outward circle. The cows turned up after sunrise, standing in a soaked field, but completely dry, with no hoof prints anywhere near them. Godfrey didn't report it, but then he heard that a Halifax patrolman saw a blue-white glow drop out of the sky the same night. He filed his report. Months later, he went with a hypnotist back to the road, and he learned that the light got into the car, and then the engine died. Then the next thing he knows he's in a room, and he wasn't alone. He said, "They're horrible, small, like five-year-old lads. There are eight of them. They keep touching me." Their heads were shaped like lamps. The black dog from the roadside was in the room with him, and there was a man, tall, with the beard. He was dressed like something out of the Old Testament, and he said his name was Joseph. Then a man who said he was from the ministry came to see Godfrey, and said he was now under the Official Secrets Act. Not a word about a dampsky, not a word about the road, the diamond, the dog, nothing. The story got out anyway. A Sunday paper put Godfrey on the front page. His boss has thought he was crazy and sent him to a doctor for tests. He passed. He said the object was real, and he never changed his story. After he retired, he said he wished he never saw the thing. They still ask him about Ziggy, the man on the coal, and he always gives the same answer, something or someone put him on top of that pile of coal, and something scared him to death. Ziggy's Goddaughter's wedding was the day after he vanished. He never got a chance to give it that speech.
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It was late in the afternoon in the rain and the only way up that hill was a footpath through the brush, so the bodies waited another night. And next morning, it took the police more than two hours to reach the clearing, a patch of open ground the size of a living room right at the top. But they weren't alone. Words spread overnight, and firefighters, volunteers, and reporters climbed up with them. The men were four days dead, and the smell reached the clearing before the police did. Both men wore raincoats over their suits, new ones with the store tags still on, and the masks lay next to their heads. They were on their backs on a mat of palm leaves, the kind you can't tear by hand. Somebody cut those leaves with a blade and laid them out flat, but there was no blade anywhere on that hill. And there was blood on the leaves. Each man also had a little blood at the nose and the mouth. And nothing else, no wound, no bruise, nothing that said how they died. The papers said who they were, Miguel Jose Viana, 34, and Manuel Pereira de Cruz, 32, to TV repairmen from Campos, a five-hour bus ride up the coast. Their pockets had a little cash, cigarettes, and the deposit slipped for a bottle of mineral water lying beside them, almost empty. Next to it, a package with two towels, cups folded out of foil, and a newspaper from the day they left home. Miguel's watch was in his trouser pocket, not on his wrist. His wedding ring was inside his jacket wrapped around his reading glasses. Then there were the things that were even stranger, a folded handkerchief with the initials AMS stitch into it. Neither family knew it, and neither man had a friend with those initials. Squares of cellophane soaked in some chemical, and a stack of handwritten notes. One had Ohm's law worked out on it, normal for men who fixed TVs for living. One was written in code, numbers, and letters, nobody can read. One was the instructions, 1630, B at specified place, 1830, ingest capsules after the effect. Protect metals, weight, signal, mask, and the last one was a schedule, Sunday, one capsule after meal, Monday, one capsule in the morning, while fasting, Tuesday, one capsule after meal, Wednesday, one capsule would lie down. The bodies have been up there since Wednesday. They took that capsule, they lay down, they never got back up. But three months earlier, those same two men, they blew a hole in the beach. Imagine setting your makeup, then forgetting it's even theirs. Meet new grippy setting mist from Mabelie, New York. Gel to mist technology locks in your look for up to 24 hours, with flexible all-day-gum v-grip. No tightness, no stickiness, no residue, just clump, dewy, hydrated skin that still feels like your skin. Try new grippy setting mist from Mabelie, New York. "Maybe it's Mabelie!" At nine o'clock, one night in May, a beach 40 miles from campus exploded. A fireball lit the sky, people heard it six miles away, houses shook, and a movie theater emptied in a panic. By morning, the story was that a flying saucer crashed into the sea, the Navy even said people. A cop walked the sand and found a hole about the size of a truck tire, and he smelled sulfur. Four men from campus were on that beach, Miguel and Manuel, Valdir, who strung antennas for them, and Elcio, who helped them out of the shop and ran the show that night. Elcio was a spiritist. He believed the dead speak through the living, and that Mars has people on it. He channeled the spirit he called Dr. Samuel. Miguel had asthma, but the spirit cured. Manuel always had a stomach ache, but Dr. Samuel cured that too. Dr. Samuel gave them all advice, and the four men held long sessions at the shop after hours. On a shelf in that shop was a book about life on Mars, written down from a spirit with their notes in the margins. Miguel and Elcio were the believers, Manuel was the doubter in the room. The night of the beach, Elcio told the others to wait in the car. He walked out toward the water alone. Ten minutes later, he came running back. Behind him, a huge red and purple light came down toward the sea, and he just started screaming, get in something bad is coming, and Valdir smelled sulfur the whole way home. A month later, a device Manuel built blew up in his backyard. A few days before he left home, Manuel told someone, "I'm going to watch a definitive experiment. After that, I'll tell you if I believe or not." On Friday, a neighbor walked into Manuel's yard and found the two of them hammering a lead pipe flag. He asked what that was for, they didn't answer, he asked again. We are creating something that will prevent the end of the world in 1968, when the great cyclone will devastate a large part of our planet. And they said, "Nothing else." Four days later, Manuel's wife watched them cut masks out of that pipe. He told her they were for work. That night, he woke her up. He told her he and Miguel had to go to São Paulo in the morning for a used car and some parts for the shop. So they wrapped a bunch of cash in paper and a friend drove them to the bus station, and Elcio met them there to see them off. The bus they boarded went to Nitoroi. They stepped off the bus set two in the afternoon in the rain and walked straight to an electronic shop. When or knew them, they asked him for parts, he didn't carry, and they knew he didn't carry them. They invited him to come to São Paulo, but he declined, so they left. Around the corner, they bought two raincoats and walked back out into the rain without putting them on. The clerk said they were nervous. Ten minutes earlier at the other shop, they were calm. At a quarter past three, they walked into a bar at the foot of the hill and asked for a bottle of mineral water cold. Miguel kept looking at his watch. They waited for the deposit slip so they can bring the bottle back for a refund, then they started up the hill in the rain. The note said being placed by 430, nobody saw them alive again. Four days later, their bodies were sent to the morgue, but the morgue was already busy. The morgue had a murdered detective on the table. The detective got the doctor, Miguel Manuel got an assistant. He cut out their organs and set them aside for testing, except the morgue had no chemicals to run the tests. By the time a reporter went looking a few days later, the organs had been thrown out. A toxicology report came out anyway. Years later, the cop ran the case, admitted on camera that he couldn't fight the administration, and on the autopsy itself, the first examiner's name was scratched off, and another name was written over it. The official cause of death came back as a no. The Thursday before the kite kid found them, another kid was up on that hill hunting birds. He saw the two men lying there and ran to the house of a cop who lived nearby, but the cop wasn't interested. The police report blamed the capsules, washed down with mineral water, but nobody could prove it, and there was nothing left to test. So they brought in Elkio. He was the last one to see them off. Elkio said, "When I said goodbye to them, I was sure they were going to South Paolo. After that day, I know nothing." Then a lawyer he said he never met filed papers, and the police let him go. Two days later, you showed them and auto parts received from CAPTAIN.
post for the afternoon they died. The neighbors saw him out front working on his car. Valdeer said Elkio ran that night on the beach. Elkio said it was the other way around that Valdeer was in charge. But Elkio did explain one thing. The note in code were part numbers for TV tubes. They wrote them down and asked me Gell and Manuel to bring the tubes back. But he had nothing to say about the other notes. Police timed the walk from the bus station to the bar. There were 20 minutes they couldn't count for. That route passed to Spiritist Centers. The men left home with enough money to buy a car, but the police said they found about $70. Around 7 on the night the men climbed the hill, a woman drove past it with her three kids in the car. Her seven year old pointed up. Above the hill top hung a bright orange oval inside a ring of fire, shooting blue light in every direction and moving up and down. They watched it for four minutes, then she drove home and told her husband. And he drove back up the road to look, whatever it was it was gone. Miguel Manuel weren't alone up there. Somebody cut those palm leaves. Somebody dropped that anger shift. They were at the place by 430. They took off the watch and the ring. They swallowed the capsules. They picked up the masks. They waited for the signal. In 1980 a scientist flew in from California and climbed the hill. He wanted to see the spot. Fourteen years had gone by. The grass never grew back. Gather out. This happened. September 1988. A boy hunting birds with a slingshot on the southern edge of São Paulo saw vultures over the reservoir, about 20 of them fighting over something in the mud on the farm bank. He worked his way around the water to see what they had. He figured it was a dog. It was a man. In his underwear, faced down in the mud and dead. Most of his face was gone. Round holes were cut into his armpits, his belly and his groin and every edge was clean. There was no sign that he fought anyone. The boy ran for the village. Nobody in São Paulo had a name for what he found. Researchers in the American West did. They sought hundreds of times with their cattle. But now it's happening to people. Corpse turned up on those banks all the time. The reservoirs south of São Paulo is where the death squads dumped their bodies. The police who walked in that morning expected another one and another morning of paperwork. They didn't get one. Nobody shot this man, nobody tied him up. There wasn't a rope mark on him or a bruise on his wrists and nothing about him looked like he was in a fight. But both his eyes were gone. Part of his left ear was gone and the lips were gone. And when they opened his mouth, the tongue was gone too. The skin on the lower half of his face was cut away in one sheet. The cut was so straight, it looked like something a razor blade would do. The crime scene expert wrote the only thing he was sure of, no signs of violence. The round holes went deeper. Two under the arms, one where the naval used to be and one at the left groin and one between two toes. None of them was bigger than a coin. The body was across the water from the road, so the police called the fiber gate to help float them over. They floated the body back at a tarp, stretched between two boards. On the near bank, the police took seven photos and sent them to the morgue. Then they found his clothes. They were in a small case, hidden in the brush a few yards where the boat watched. Pants, shirt, shoes, and a fishing bag with a pack lunch still in it. The kind of thing you leave behind when you're coming right back. Nobody dumped this man. They came here alive, stripped with shorts, hit his things, and swam 80 meters across the reservoir to fish the quiet side. You could walk around the arm of the water to that bank, but it took an hour through brush, so nobody did. That was the point. The police had no name for this guy. They filed him as an unknown white male, about 40, and buried him in a pauper's grave. It was weeks before a family came looking and put a name on the file. Joaquim. He was 53, he lived across the city, and he fished that spot for years. He left on a Sunday morning with his gear and told nobody where, because he'd never had to. By Monday, his family was asking around. By Thursday, a boy with a slingshot found him. He died on that bank, alone with nobody to hear it, and when the coroners opened him up, they found why he was so quiet. Every organ in his abdomen was gone, and the only way in was a hole the size of a bottle cap. Two coroners signed the report. The lab took 20 milliliters of his blood and ran it for poison, drugs, anything that could explain a man lying still while this happened to him. It came back clean. The abdominal cavity was empty. Stomach intestines, everything below the ribs, taken out through a three-centimeter hole where the naval used to be. They measured the hole. A human stomach doesn't fit through it. They wrote that the cuts came from a cutting instrument, and for how the organs left the body, they wrote down the only word that fit. Aspiration. Something put an instrument through that hole and sucked them out. The report went further. The wound showed vital reaction, which is the coroner's way of saying the tissue was alive when it was cut. It bled the way living tissue bleeds, and the skin around every cut swelled the way living skin swells. The coroners used the word torture. Joaquin was awake for at least part of this, and he didn't fight it. Not a mark on him said that he tried. Something held him still while it worked. It didn't hold his heart still though. The coroner's listed vagal inhibition as the cause of death. Trauma so extreme that the nerve running from the brain to the heart shut the heart down. The homicide squad got the report and called it heinous crime, which is the only thing in the file that sounds like a cop talking. Then they sent four questions back to the morgue. What instrument did this? What made those dark stains around every wound? Could animals have done any of it and has the state's medical examiner ever seen anything like this before? Well, the coroner answered that first question in one sentence. We know of no machine with the capacity to do this. They never answered the second or third questions. Not in file, not in print, not anywhere. But they answered the last one in four words. Yes, several similar cases. Then the file went into a drawer under unknown where a case with no name and no suspect goes, and it stayed there for five years. If I really came out because a crime scene technician retired by then still had the seven photos. He showed them to a cousin, a dermatologist, and the dermatologist showed them to a friend. And Carnaceon Zapata Garcia. She was a UFO researcher. She said a chill went through her whole body the moment she had those photos in her hands. She went over them with a magnifying glass and wrote down everything she saw. By the second photo, she knew where she'd seen this before. Not on a man on cattle. Thousands of them across the American West over 20 years, the same missing tongue and eyes, the same holes with the same clean edges, the same organs gone through an opening too small to pass those organs. No tracks around the carcass, no blood in the grass, and the rest of the herd refused to go near that spot for months. Nobody caught anyone near those animals, not ever. If Garcia tracked down the district prosecutor, he remembered the body. She sent him a stack of cattle files, and he called it back the next morning, a Saturday because he read all of it overnight and wanted to keep going. It took him two months to find the police file, because it was buried under a dead man with no name. When he finally found it, he offered to dig walk him up. Sounds fine. When she got to the cemetery, the grave was already empty. The family got there first and moved him. In September 1993, five years to the month, she published everything, the photos, the report, the four questions, and the two answers. She left the names blank. The first documented human mutilation on record. The same thing that took the cattle took a fisherman, and the case went around the world. A tabloid put the seven photos in the front page under the headline "Secret Photos," and a television host announced the real name of the reservoir live TV, like it was a clue. And for nine years, that was the only new fact that anybody turned up. Garcia wrote a second article a year after the first, and the title was the whole story, the discussion continues. She ended the first one with a question, and she never took it back. They dissected our animals for decades. Wouldn't it be natural for them to start on us? In 2002, the same magazine printed a new article on the case. Its writers went out to the bank three times. They filled in the blanks. They found a neighbor, 83 years old, who still remembered the morning the boat went out, and the boy who ran for help. Then they took back everything the first article said. They called Garcia before it went to press, and she said she was done talking about it, and then she hung up. While human fishing on a Sunday, he hid his clothes so he can change back into them, and he packed a lunch he never ate. He picked the quiet bank because nothing bothered him there. Then something did.
Then it left him in the mud with his eyes gone and his belly empty, and not a mark on him that said he tried. The writers found the fire brigade Sargent too, the one who rode Joaquim across the water on a tarp. Fourteen years on, he could still see the boat, the neighbor who lent it, and the weight of the man under the canvas, and he had one more thing to tell them. And in fourteen years, nobody asked. Ten days after that morning, the same Sargent got another call. From reservoir system, but a different part of it, but a different body, he said it in three words, exactly the same. Nobody wrote an article about that one. Thank you so much for hanging out today, my name is AJ, this is the Y-Files, and that was a campfire story. No debunking, no analysis, just a creepy story to scare you in the kids. And that one is true and unsolved. If you had fun, I'd appreciate it if you can like, subscribe, comment, and share. That stuff really helps. And like what's topics we cover here, today's was recommended by you. So if there's a story you'd like to see, go to the Y-Files.com/tips or send us an email. We'd love to cover that story. And if you'd like to hear any of these campfire stories expanded into a full episode, there's if you'd like to do, then definitely let me know. Remember the Y-Files is also a podcast, you can take us on the road, I post deep dives into the stories we cover on the channel, also post episodes that wouldn't be allowed on the channel, podcasts is called the Y-Files, Operation Podcast, and it's available everywhere. You're listening on an audio platform, do me a favor, hit the thumbs up, or the like, or the follow, whatever those buttons are, those really do help. Now, if you need more Y-Files in your life, check out our Discord. We're about to hit 100,000 members over there. It's a lot of fun, it's a really supportive community, there's someone on there, 24/7, and it's free to join. Speaking of 24/7, check out our 24/7, I'm plowing through the plugs. Speaking of 24/7, make sure you check out our 24/7 stream in the Y-Files backstage. Over there, we run episodes back to back, it's some fun content in between. The Live Chat is super, super fun. Special thanks to our patrons who made this channel possible, and make every episode of the Y-Files happen. Every episode is dedicated to our Patreon members, I could not do this without you. If you'd like to support the channel, keep us going, consider becoming a member on Patreon. For those little three bucks a month, get access to perks like videos early to no commercials, exclusive merch, and two private livestreams every week just for you to hear the whistle on my teeth, it's 'cause I'm going to fast. The private livestreams are a lot of fun. For members only, my web cam is on, everyone on the teen has their camera on, you can talk to all of us, turn your camera on, jump up on stage, ask a question, it's a lot of, I think it's the best perk there is. Another great way to support the channel, grab something from the Y-Files tour. That is
[email protected], you'll find it. But if you've got a vibe urge to become a member on YouTube, YouTube members get 10% off everything in the Y-Files tour forever, so if you get us fed 40 bucks on T-shirts from festival mugs, become a member on YouTube for three bucks, pace for itself, and that money goes to the teen left to me. Those are the plugs I got through as fast as I could, and that's going to do it till next time be safe. Be kind and know that you are appreciated. I play Bolivia's an area 51, a secret code inside the Bible set I was. I love my UFOs and paranormal bars as well as mirrors in, so I'm saying it like I should. But then another conspiracy theory becomes the truth, my friends, and it never ends. I feel the crack at it, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I feel it only two hours. I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home. I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with an K-Out truck, I got stuck inside my home with a ♪ Yeah, good enough to dance, I don't let go ♪ ♪ Because she is a camel ♪ ♪ We can't love the dance ♪ ♪ When the feeling is right on the way with him time ♪ ♪ Yeah, good enough to dance ♪ (upbeat music)
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